


Take Me (In) To Church

by sambharsobs



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/F, Family Issues, Humor, Smut, basically they have sex and fall in love, ingrid gets RAILED, mercie TOPS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23700049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambharsobs/pseuds/sambharsobs
Summary: “I noticed you looking from over there, you know,” says the girl softly.“Oh!” Ingrid's face feels like it’s on fire. “Um, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”The girl winks, and her throat goes dry. “I never said I minded.”Or, Ingrid gets railed by the local pastor's daughter and they fall in love. Modern AU.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 167
Kudos: 451





	1. May The Goddess Have Mercie On You

Ingrid’s just drunk enough where she needs to lean on things for support.

Dorothea, making the most her compliance to come out tonight, has been supplying a constant stream of alcohol her way, and she’s really feeling it now. The club is loud, as per usual, and there are way too many people for a safe exit in the case of an emergency, but Ingrid is enjoying herself.

She scans the crowd lazily, feeling the music reverberate with the alcohol in her blood. Annette is DJing today, and Ingrid catches sight of her red hair barely peeping over the podium. Saturday nights are busy nights, so there are shapes and forms and bodies all around her. She doesn’t envy the folks trapped in the sweaty, pulsing wave that is the dance floor.

There’s a pretty girl on the other end of the club, across the dancefloor, and Ingrid knows she’s staring shamelessly.

The girl has short, light hair, and Ingrid likes her choice of fashion – dark pants, peach shirt, and brown boots – because it accentuates her curves beautifully. She’s standing close to the DJ booth and despite seeming to be alone, the girl is smiling at the mess of limbs before her.

Ingrid knows she’s being boorish by looking so openly, but the girl is captivating.

Her vision is blocked by green eyes and brown hair, and Dorothea is standing before her, hands on her lips, teasing smile on her lips.

“What are you looking at, my Ingrid?”

Ingrid feels her face heat up, and she looks away, shaking her head.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Tell me!” whines Dorothea, slipping her hand into Ingrid’s and scanning the crowd. Her face drops into horror. “Not _Annie_ , I hope.”

“Goddess, no,” blurts Ingrid. Annette’s dad is her boss, for Sothis’ sake. She doesn’t…mingle…with women whose parents she knows, just to stay safe. Then again, she doesn’t do random hook-ups, either.

“Then who?” says Dorothea. “You’ve been distracted all evening and honestly, my Ingrid, I’m jealous.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes at her theatrics. Dorothea wiggles her eyebrows expectantly, and so Ingrid sighs and tells her. When she sees her, Dorothea lets out a low whistle.

“Oh, I get it. I totally get it.”

Ingrid laughs. “I just think she’s pretty, Dorothea. That’s all.”

“Stop being so chivalrous and admit you want her to ride your face.”

“Doro- _thea_.”

Dorothea slips behind her and taps her butt, pushing her towards the girl. “Go get her, my Ingrid.”

Ingrid stumbles because they’re both drunk, and grabs Dorothea’s wrists to push them away. “Absolutely not. We should go on a date first, at the very least.”

“You can do all that later,” whines Dorothea. Ingrid turns around and catches her pout. “Come on, my Ingrid. Don’t be such a prude. Live your life, follow your heart, fuck that girl!”

Ingrid glares at Dorothea, but she’s right. Ingrid hasn’t gotten laid in ages, and honestly, she’s willing to cut a few courtship rules to make that a reality. There’s also just enough tequila in her system to convince her that this is a good idea. So she sighs in resignation, and Dorothea squeals in delight.

The brunette has her hands on her ass again and shoves her towards the girl, saying, “You’ve got this, my Ingrid! Please use a _good_ pick-up line!”

Ingrid turns and glares at her, and Dorothea sends a kiss and wink her way.

She has to brave through the sweaty throng of the dance floor first. She leads with her shoulder, but there are bodies swinging around her with wild abandon. Someone steps on her foot and she winces, and another person smacks her back and she swears. Ingrid is reminded, once again, why she likes to stay at home.

The crowd spits her out on the other end and she stumbles a little to regain her balance. Ingrid looks around her, but the girl is gone. She sighs, and braces herself for the trip back to the bar.

There’s a tap on her shoulder then, and she turns to see the girl smiling at her. She’s got beautiful blue eyes, thinks Ingrid, and blurts out a moment too late, “Hello.”

The girl smiles, her eyes crinkling, and says, “Hello there. Are you looking for someone?”

Her eyes are twinkling as she says it, and Ingrid feels hot suddenly. She scratches the back of her neck awkwardly, and tries to think of something, but nothing comes to mind. Ingrid regrets this immediately. The girl giggles, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I noticed you looking from over there, you know,” says the girl softly, leaning in. Ingrid takes in a whiff of lavender perfume.

“Oh!” Her face feels like it’s on fire. “Um, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

The girl winks, and Ingrid’s throat goes dry. “I never said I minded.” 

She’s definitely flirting, right? This constitutes as interest, if not flirting per se. Ingrid desperately thinks of a pick-up line. She gestures to the girl vaguely.

“That, uh, shirt brings out the colour of your um, eyes.” Ingrid winces. _Great job._

Rather than walk off, however, the girl laughs, and it’s a light, airy chime. “Dance with me,” she says, reaching for Ingrid’s hands and pulling her onto the dance floor.

Ingrid is not a dancer, but hell, she isn’t a pick-up-a-girl-at-the-club person either, so she goes with it. The girl is a little taller than her, and she laughs as Ingrid lifts their joined hands to spin her around. They’re sucked into the mob, and there are too many people, so she sticks close to the girl.

Her eyes are blue, so blue, and she ghosts a hand up Ingrid’s bicep. Ingrid places a hand on her waist. The beat is simple and low, so they sway together easily. The girl is smiling, and Ingrid feels her own lips quirk upwards at the sight.

Someone’s hand smacks the back of Ingrid’s head and she stumbles forward. The girl gasps and reaches out to steady her. Ingrid turns and glares at the offender, who quickly scurries away. The girl slips her hand through her hair and rubs gently, biting her lip to hold back a smile. Ingrid wants her closer, so she holds her waist and pulls her against her. The girl slips her hands around her neck, laughing openly now.

Then her hips begin to sway, and oh Goddess, Ingrid is in deep shit.

Her hands are anchored on those rocking hips, and she can feel her warm body swaying next to her. All Ingrid can think about, however, are those full, pink lips.

She takes the plunge and leans over to bridge the gap. Soft lips press against hers, and the girl runs her fingers through Ingrid’s hair. When her tongue teases her bottom lip, Ingrid opens her mouth obediently, and the girl is slipping a hot tongue into her mouth.

Her body feels hot, and the girl is pressed up against her fully, against every nook and crevice. Ingrid traces circles on those hypnotising hips, and tugs her closer enough to slip a leg between her thighs. A slight press, and the girl groans into her mouth.

Their lips separate with a wet sound, and her lips are ghosting the shell of Ingrid’s ear.

“How about we get out of here, handsome?”

Ingrid feels something wild tug at her chest at that, and she nods.

-

Ingrid is flung against the door of her apartment as soon as she shuts it, and the girl presses herself against Ingrid with a hard, demanding kiss. A soft thigh slips between hers and presses with insistence, and she has to choke back a moan.

She really isn’t sure how she survived the cab ride home – the girl had been insatiable in the cab, ghosting the insides of her thigh with her fingers and whispering the dirtiest things into her ear – and she’s not sure how she’s going to survive this, now.

The girl pulls back, eyes half-lidded, and whispers, “Bedroom?”

Ingrid swallows and nods, before taking her hand and guiding them to her room. She passes by her roommate’s door and winces – she really hopes Ashe stayed over at Dedue’s tonight.

In the bedroom, the girl pulls her flush against her immediately, and Ingrid’s still a little drunk so she wobbles a little while they kiss. The girl giggles as she leads Ingrid towards her bed.

“You’re cute,” she says, pushing her to sit on the soft sheets and straddling her. Ingrid feels her cheeks heat up at that, and the girl laughs softly again.

They kiss again, and Ingrid marvels at how soft her lips are. Her hands are curling behind her neck, her tongue is slipping into her mouth, and her breasts are pressing against her chest. The kiss is heady and leaves her breathless, and the girl’s lips are curved into a smile as she kisses a trail down her neck.

Lips pucker around her pulse point and sucks. Ingrid sighs, running her fingers through the girl’s short hair. Everything about her seems soft and warm – from her lips to her chest to her thighs to her hips. Ingrid feels her everywhere, under her fingers and against her body.

There’s a sharp pain at her neck suddenly as the girl bites down, and Ingrid feels a ripple of pleasure shudder through her limbs. A warm tongue slides over the bite, and Ingrid groans. She does it again, and Ingrid feels the arousal tingle the tips of her limbs.

She must have been focusing too much on how soft and warm and whatever the girl is, because her shirt is almost halfway unbuttoned, and soon it and her bra are thrown to the floor. The girl leans back and looks at her appreciatively, and Ingrid feels her face – which is already warm from the stimulation – turn redder.

The girl’s smirk is hidden for a second while she slips out of her shirt, and she says, “You’re going to be fun, I can tell.” Ingrid opens her mouth to protest, but it stays hanging when the girl removes her bra.

Her breasts are…a work of art. Creamy and heavy, with pert, dark nipples, Ingrid’s mouth waters at the prospect of them in her mouth. The girl laughs again, and then wiggles a little to show off.

“Like what you see?”

Ingrid has had it with this girl teasing her, so she lets out an appreciative grunt and trails her hands from soft hips to even softer breasts, and kneads them gently in her hands. The girl sighs, and Ingrid bows her head to take a nipple in her mouth. She kisses and sucks the sensitive flesh while rolling the other nipple around with her fingers, revelling in the sweet sounds coming from the girl above her.

Slender fingers weave through her hair to hold her in place, and she sucks harder and pinches firmer, and the girl lets out a soft moan. She’s still got it, thinks Ingrid smugly, now all she has to do it flip them around-

Her head is yanked back suddenly. She hisses, half from pain, half from arousal, and looks up at blue eyes, which glitter dangerously.

Their lips crash together again, and the girl is urging her backwards until her back feels the softness of her sheets. The girl prowls over her body, taking in her heaving breasts, sweating muscles and trembling thighs, as she pulls off her jeans. Ingrid feels like she’s going to be eaten alive.

“Where shall I start with you?” wonders the girl, her lips ghosting over her collarbone.

“Wherever you want,” manages Ingrid, and she’s rewarded with a bite to the junction of her neck.

The whimper that escapes her mouth surprises her, but she can’t do much about it, because the girl has slipped her leg between hers, and is ravishing her neck with bites and kisses. The sounds coming from Ingrid’s mouth are desperate and needy, and she grinds up against the girl’s thigh. She slides down, marking the skin as her mouth trails lower.

The girl’s head hovers at her stomach, and she tilts her head upwards, blue eyes teasing.

“Oh, come on,” gasps Ingrid, propping herself up on one elbow and panting heavily.

A warm huff of laughter tickles her stomach. Then she licks a long line, from Ingrid’s lower abdomen to her navel, across her tight abs and towards the spot her breasts meet, and the warm, wet sensation on her skin has Ingrid throwing her head back with a moan.

A hand kneads her breast, and another slips lower. The girl rubs her clit through her underwear and Ingrid feels a choked cry escape her throat. She wants those soft hands in her, now. The friction in her legs sends a wave of pleasure up her spine and down her legs, but the girl is holding back so that she can’t come from it.

Ingrid looks up her the girl, who is surveying her with a naughty smile. A tight circle has her vision blur slightly, and she cries out, thrusting against the girl’s hand for more.

“Getting desperate, are we?” she whispers against her ear hotly, and Ingrid clutches her shoulders for support.

“Please,” she breathes. “Please.”

The giggle she hears is delighted and dastardly all at once, and suddenly, the girl has pulled herself away from her. The loss of the soft warmth leaves Ingrid squirming, and she whimpers pathetically.

“Turn around,” says the girl.

The speed at which she rolls over is almost mortifying, but Ingrid can’t think of anything except the girl and her hands and her tongue. Ingrid hugs her pillow for support – she knows she’s going to need it.

Like a vine, the girl curls over her, and presses her lips to her neck. One hand is ghosting the edge of her underwear, and one hand is trailing across her back. The touch is light and teasing, and certainly not enough.

“Please, more,” Ingrid whimpers.

The fingers tracing her back curl, and she drags her nails down the muscle, sharp enough to stimulate but not hurt. Ingrid whines into the pillow, hips bucking. They turn at her hip, and ghost under her trembling form to massage at her breast.

Finally, _finally_ , her underwear is pulled off.

“I’m going to give you more, but you need to do something for me first,” breathes the girl into her shoulder blades.

“A-Anything,” says Ingrid, her voice quavering with need. “Just, _goddess_ …”

“So cute,” she murmurs, her lips trailing to her shoulder. “So good for me.”

Then the girl bites down, and Ingrid cries out sharply. Her hips move backwards on their own accord, but there’s nothing to grind against.

“I want to hear every sound you make,” she breathes against the stinging flesh. “So don’t hold back.” She licks a line towards Ingrid’s neck, and the sound she makes is somewhere between a whimper and an affirmative.

A hum of approval, and the girl drags a finger along Ingrid’s soaking slit. Ingrid moans as she resumes circling her clit, this time more precise and firmer. Her fingers bump against a particularly sensitive spot and she warbles out a cry.

“Please, inside, _please_ …”

She giggles against Ingrid’s throat. Another bite has Ingrid whimpering “ _Please_ ”, and then the girl finally pushes her fingers into her pussy.

Ingrid moans as she stretches to accommodate a finger, and then chokes out a desperate sound when the second follows. Her fingers are long and slender, and she curls them slowly. Ingrid’s legs feel like they’re going to give out, and she moves her hips backwards impatiently.

A sharp pinch to her breast makes her gasp, and the girl whispers, “Ah-ah. That’s cheating.”

Ingrid chokes out a half-sob, half-moan. The girl kisses her cheek softly, reassuringly. Ingrid reaches a hand backward and grabs at her hair, pulling her closer, needing the girl’s softness and warmth to surround her. She can feel the girl’s lips curving against her ear.

Her fingers begin to move at that, curling inside her before being yanked out and shoved again. It’s hot and noisy and messy and Ingrid wails our praises to the goddess. Her hips move in accordance to the girl’s rhythm, desperately chasing her orgasm.

The girl plunges her fingers into her pussy and then twists, and Ingrid _mewls_.

She does it again, this time accentuating it with another pinch to her breast. Ingrid wails, and then she’s doing it again and again and again, and each one is faster and harder and deeper than the last.

It starts building deep within her legs, and she can feel the crest building, the waves spurned by the tornado of the girl’s fingers and mouth. Her cries are reduced to disconnected and disjointed sounds, and they get shorter and more desperate as she keeps going.

A well-aimed thrust hits the right spot, and she’s falling over, low-pitched cry crackling from her throat. The girl keeps at that place, and Ingrid’s vision turns white. She slows her pace gradually, letting Ingrid ride out the orgasm longer, until she’s trembling.

Once the fingers are removed, Ingrid collapses onto the pillow. Soft lips are kissing her neck and shoulder and back, and a gentle hand runs through her hair.

Ingrid turns over and throatily sighs, “That was amazing.”

Her eyes glimmer wickedly, and she giggles dangerously. “We’re not done yet, you know.”

And she’s sucking the fingers that were in Ingrid moments ago.

-

When the doorbell rings, Ingrid scarfs down the rest of her breakfast – more like lunch, at this hour – and opens the door.

Dorothea lounges on the threshold of her apartment, her eyes glittering teasingly. She opens her mouth to say something, but then falls silent as her eyes rake Ingrid’s neck.

“Goddess, Ingrid,” breathes her friend. “Was she a vampire?”

Ingrid sighs and rubs her eyes wearily, pulling Dorothea through the door. She’s only seeing her neck, thinks Ingrid with a wince. She doesn’t know of the rest.

“No. This,” she waves at her neck, “is why I asked you to come upstairs. How in the Goddess’ name am I supposed to fix it?”

Dorothea is rummaging about in her purse, and pulls out a tube of make-up. “It doesn’t hide the sins, but it hides the evidence, at least,” she quips.

Ingrid opens the first two buttons of her shirt to let Dorothea access her neck better, and the brunette begins dabbing cool liquid onto her neck and patting it with her fingers. It stings somewhat still, and she hisses.

Dorothea laughs, “So I guess _someone_ had a good night.”

Ingrid makes a sound of approval. “I’m going to be sore for days,” she says, and she admits she sounds rather smug.

“I’m happy for you,” says Dorothea, holding her chin as she dabs more liquid. “I didn’t expect you to actually do it. Ingrid Galatea? Picking up a random stranger in the club? I thought I dreamt the whole thing.”

Ingrid pushes her lightly, and she giggles. Her smile drops quickly enough, however. “I can’t do much. She’s absolutely destroyed your neck, my Ingrid. Do you have a turtleneck?”

Ingrid sighs and nods. “If that doesn’t hide it, I’m going to stick a band-aid on it.” Dorothea’s eyes widen in horror, so she quickly adds, “I’m joking.”

The turtleneck does a better job than the make-up. It’s become habit for her and Dorothea to go out shopping for groceries together on Sundays, so she grabs her wallet and keys and they head out the door.

“So,” coos Dorothea as soon as they get into her car. “Did you get her number?”

Ingrid shakes her head and fumbles with the radio controls until the volume drops to a non-headache-inducing level. “I don’t know her name.”

“Ingrid!” gasps Dorothea dramatically, swatting her shoulder. “That’s not how you treat a lady!”

Ingrid glares at her.

“What happened to ‘I take women on dates first?’ Hmm?”

“Five shots of tequila happened, thanks to you,” grumbles Ingrid.

“It was four, my Ingrid. The rest was all you.”

“I hate you.”

They bicker until they reach the departmental store. Dorothea parks, and they walk into the cool, sterilized air. Ingrid grabs a shopping cart and follows the brunette, who walks before her. She’s monologuing again, about Ferdinand and his stubbornness to listen to Dorothea, the _director_ of the play, and how he keeps interrupting her with suggestions and ideas that won’t work on stage.

Ingrid tunes out, humming approval at the right places and pushing the cart with her elbows. They pause when either of them needs to pick up something or Dorothea needs to accentuate her point with a flourish. It’s a habit formed over years, and so she knows when to do what.

The city has been her home ever since her birth, and so everything here is comfortable and familiar. She and Dorothea go out shopping on Sundays. On Tuesdays, Ashe throws a potluck at their apartment with a few friends. On Fridays, she hangs out with the boys at Sylvain’s house. Work fills the rest, and there’s the occasional Saturday night party. She’s got an easy routine that’s made perfect through years of trying.

She’s snapped out of her thoughts when she hears, “Ah, Ingrid.”

It’s Father Martritz, the pastor at their local church. Ingrid feels a twinge of guilt at the sight of him – religious men must train to incite those feelings – and smiles politely.

“Father Martritz, hello. How are you?”

“I am well, thank you.” He shoots Dorothea a disapproving look, and the brunette squares her shoulders and glares back at him. Ingrid, knowing Dorothea’s relationship with the man – more importantly, the orphanage he runs through the church – quickly steps in to prevent a shouting match.

“Father said he was looking forward to the next game of golf with you.”

The old man smiles. “Yes, we met at mass this morning. I didn’t see _you_ , though,” he says sharply, and Ingrid feels her neck heat up.

She hasn’t gone to church for a long time, ever since she began exploring her sexuality four years ago. Ingrid wasn’t particularly devout to begin with, despite being enrolled for all the Church camps when she was little. Stammering, she tries to come up with an excuse.

“I, uh, was a little-”

“Dad, you forgot the eggs,” chimes a voice, and Ingrid feels her chest tighten.

That voice had been in her apartment a few hours ago, whispering the dirtiest things in her ear.

The girl rounds one of the shelves, carton of eggs in hand. She’s wearing white pants and a dark blue turtleneck shirt. Her eyes widen when they spot Ingrid, and she breaks into a smile.

“Oh! Hello again, stranger.”

The girl had just called Father Martritz ‘Dad’. And as casual as you were with the church, you don’t call a father ‘dad’ unless he’s your actual father. So that means, the girl who fucked her raw last night was-

Father Martritz says, “You know Ingrid, Mercedes?”

“Oh, yes. We bumped into each other last night.”

Numbly, Ingrid hears Dorothea delightedly mutter, “They did a whole load more than _bump_.”

The girl stretches out a hand, slender fingers open, and Ingrid tries very hard to focus on what the girl is saying now than remembering what those fingers were doing last night.

“It’s nice to finally meet you properly. I’m Mercedes, but you can call me Mercie. Ingrid, right?” The girl’s voice was musically light, but her eyes were twinkling teasingly.

Ingrid swallows and takes her hand, all attempts to focus on the conversation failing miserably when she touches soft fingertips. “Y-Yeah, I’m Ingrid. The uh, pleasure is mine.”

Father Martritz has turned to Dorothea, who purposely knocked over a can of beans to the floor to save face. Mercedes glances at them briefly, and then winks at Ingrid.

Ingrid feels her legs turn to jelly.

“I hope to see you around then, Ingrid,” says Mercedes, as her father turns around.

Ingrid chokes out an affirmative, and then father and daughter turn to leave. Ingrid swallows, closes her eyes, and exhales through her mouth shakily.

She’s in deep shit.

Dorothea takes five seconds before doubling over herself in hushed laughter. Ingrid grabs her shoulder and pulls her up, looking at her warningly.

“Oh, goddess, _Ingrid_ …” she says through laughs.

“Dorothea, keep your voice down, they’ll hear you-”

“ _Father Martritz’s_ daughter? You got railed by the _pastor’s daughter_? Oh saints-”

Ingrid shakes her slightly, and hisses, “Not so loud!”

“-and your _face_ , Ingrid! Oh goddess…but I can’t call her anymore, huh?” says Dorothea, exploding giggles.

Ingrid looks over her shoulder if anyone was watching, and thankfully, nobody had witnessed the situation, especially not Father Martritz and the girl - Mercedes. Dorothea was still shaking in her arms, choking out laughs through tears.

Ingrid’s mind is reeling. Her face burns, and dread settles in the pit of her stomach. Of course the one night she decides to break her carefully-structured routine, it would come back to bite her in the ass.

“Oh, my Ingrid, don’t look so dejected,” says Dorothea, but her sentiments don’t sound too sincere when the brunette is wiping away tears of laughter.

Ingrid sighs, and rubs her forehead, which is hurting even more now.

Mercedes, huh? She really was something else. How she kept a straight face with her father right there was beyond Ingrid. She didn’t know Father Crusty even had a daughter, let alone one who knew how to use her fingers in such sinful ways.

Another tired sigh. “Dorothea.”

“Yes, my dear Ingrid?”

“We’re going to mass next Sunday.”

Dorothea explodes into another peal of laughter.

.


	2. Spiritual Growth and Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her eyes twinkle dangerously. “I thought the sermon was very important. We are more than our productivity, right?”
> 
> “Right,” Ingrid agrees, as if she hadn’t spent the last 45 minutes thinking of the various ways the girl in front of her could rail her.
> 
> Mercedes bursts into a laugh then, and says, “Be honest with me now, Ingrid. Did you come here for the spiritual growth, or…something else?”

Ingrid rings the doorbell, and Manuela opens the door with a smile.

Pulling Ingrid into a hug, she says, "How are you, Ingrid? Come in, come in."

"I'm well, Ms. Casa-"

Manuela turns to her and pouts. "None of that 'Ms. Casagranda' nonsense, Ingrid. I don't need reminders that I'm going to be single for the rest of my life."

Ingrid smiles at that. "That's not on you, it's on the men for not noticing your beauty and your voice, and the kindness in your heart that exceeds your talents," she says, her smile widening.

She's known Manuela as long as she's known Dorothea, and it's a routine that they have – the older woman complains about being single, and Ingrid showers her with compliments. Her words are only half for show though, because the Divine Songstress is as amazing as she is beautiful. Aside from running one of the most popular performing-arts theatres in the country, the woman is kind, gentle and caring towards everyone.

Manuela had found Dorothea on the streets when the brunette was seven, and had given her a place in her home. Although the adoption was finalised when Dorothea was 10, Manuela had filled that space in Dorothea's life long before that. The older woman was always kind to Ingrid too, aside from a few nights where she'd been too drunk to function.

Manuela pats Ingrid's cheek affectionately, and says, "Oh, you. You girls keep me young."

Ingrid grins at that.

"Dot is still getting ready, but I must say, Ingrid. I'm rather surprised. I never put you down as the religious type," she muses.

Ingrid feels her face heat up at that. "Well, uh…"

Dorothea makes her entrance then with, "That's because she's very interested in begging for Mercie."

Ingrid chokes, and Manuela turns to her daughter, dressed in her Sunday best. "Oh? Am I missing something?"

"N-Nothing, Ms. Casagranda," huffs Ingrid, glaring at Dorothea.

Manuela just laughs at them. "Well, you kids go on ahead. I'll join you there later." She gives Dorothea a hug and a kiss to the forehead, and the same to Ingrid, and they head out to Ingrid's truck.

Ingrid glares at Dorothea. "Really?"

Dorothea laughs and slides into the passenger seat, saying, "If I have to go to Crusty's Church, I get to tease you as much as I want."

Ingrid starts the ignition, sighing in defeat. It's only fair trade, after all. As they head down to the church, Dorothea connects her phone to her radio, laughing softly.

“What are you giggling about?”

“I’m just remembering your face last week. I’m going to get a picture of it this time.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be my friend?”

“Yes, and that’s exactly why I’m doing this. It’s my duty and responsibility,” snickers Dorothea.

Ingrid rolls her eyes and focuses on the road.

They had dated, briefly, four years ago. Dorothea had helped her come to terms with her sexuality, and their friendship had shifted into something a little more charged as the days had passed. One day, while sitting on Dorothea’s roof, they had kissed.

It had been good initially – she’s eternally grateful that Dorothea was the one to witness her initial fumbling and not anybody else – but things just hadn’t worked out. They were both very stubborn, she had been too scared, and Dorothea had wanted more.

But when you’ve shared so much with someone, you can’t just leave them when things don’t work out. They’ve stayed together even afterwards – in fact, their friendship was better for it.

Back in the present, Dorothea has finally connected her phone to the radio. “I’ve got a special playlist for this ride,” she says mysteriously. Ingrid doesn’t like the mischievous twinkle in her eye.

_How Great Thou Art_ begins playing from her radio, and Dorothea begins singing along in a breathy, sultry voice –

“ _How great thou aah! Ah, ah, ahh_ —”

Ingrid reconsiders the friendship.

-

They pull into the church’s parking lot, and dread fills the bottom of Ingrid’s stomach. It’s been four years since she came here last, which would be fine if she hadn’t filled the space with a lot of ‘sinning’.

The place hasn’t changed so much though. The main chapel and prayer hall is massive and decorated intricately. The statue of the Goddess sits at one end of the hall, and rows and rows of pews fill the remaining space.

Pastor Martritz hovers at the podium, shuffling some papers, and next to him is—

Mercedes is wearing a long blue skirt, and a white button down shirt, and really, Ingrid should not be this turned on by just looking. She’s is talking to the ladies in the front row and she’s in her element, smiling politely and speaking in hushed, respectful whispers.

“Hey, pope-fucker,” hisses Dorothea. “Don’t stand here staring, people are lining up behind us.” She pushes Ingrid further into the hall, and Ingrid stumbles forward, still staring.

Sharp blue eyes look up to see what the commotion is about, and when she spots her, Mercedes takes a moment before shooting her a sly smile. Ingrid swallows thickly.

“Stay with the Goddess now, Ingrid,” whispers Dorothea, shaking from restrained laughter. “Let’s grab a spot…oh saints, I’m going to shit myself…”

Service is about the start, and so Mercedes goes to take her place at the first pew. The last-minute stragglers scurry in – Manuela being one of them – and it begins.

Ingrid zones out about ten minutes in, deciding instead to focus on Mercedes’ back instead for the rest of the 45-minute-long ordeal. Ingrid is going to ask for her number, but unlike last week’s performance, she’ll be smooth and cool this time. Her mind keeps wandering to the events of last week, and she has to yank herself out of it. She’s in church.

In church to see a hot girl.

“Boy, he sure does love the sound of his voice, huh,” mutters Dorothea darkly. Ingrid shushes her as Father Martritz begins winding down his speech. The choir wraps up the day’s events with a hymn.

Ingrid hates the post-service socialisation, but she no option but to engage – there are men who know her father through his business, women who meet her mother regularly, and folks who have seen her grow up. Manuela pulls away the people who begin asking, “We haven’t seen you for so long, how wonderful that you’ve returned to the Goddess’ path—” with enviable grace. She smiles at the older woman gratefully.

“Hello again, Ingrid,” chimes a voice from behind her, and she tries very hard not to jump.

She turns, and Mercedes has a teasing smile on her face. “Hello, Mercedes.”

“How nice of you to join us today,” she says, looking her up and down.

“Yeah, the um, sermon was-” she really shouldn’t have spaced out, “-nice,” Ingrid finishes weakly.

“Oh, yes,” she hums, eyes still twinkling dangerously. “I thought it was very important that people from our generation hear those words. We are more than our productivity, right?”

“Right,” Ingrid agrees, as if she hadn’t spent the last 45 minutes thinking of the various ways the girl in front of her could rail her.

“Right,” Mercedes repeats slowly, her smile widening. She bursts into a laugh then, and says, “Be honest with me now, Ingrid. Did you come here for the spiritual growth, or…something else?”

It’s getting very warm in this chapel.

“The, uh. The spiritual growth, yeah,” mumbles Ingrid lamely.

“Ah.” Mercedes’ eyebrows shoot up, clearly not buying her shit. Clever blue eyes pin her in place, and it’s really unsettling and really hot, all at once.

Ingrid coughs into a fist. “It’s been a while since I last came,” she admits.

“Has it? I would have never guessed,” teases Mercedes, laughing a little. She moves closer and says, “It’s difficult coming back after a long time, right? Everybody is so…curious.”

Ingrid is glad she understands. Before she can open her mouth and say something in response though, Mercedes’ hand is trailing her shoulder lazily, and she clamps her mouth shut.

“If you need any help readjusting,” she breathes, voice low and sultry, “I can give you a…refresher course on worship.”

Ingrid feels her face heating up, all the way to the tips of her ears, but manages a shaky, “That would be nice.”

“Come home today at four, then,” says Mercedes, smiling at her dangerously.

The words send a shiver down her spine, and she nods a little too enthusiastically, which makes the taller girl laugh. She pats her cheek fondly, and then she’s gone to talk to somebody else.

Ingrid exhales noisily through her mouth once she’s out of earshot, and massages her temples. Not one of her best performances, and she still hasn’t got her number. But also – and the turns red at the thought – she’s got another…chance this afternoon.

When she turns around, she catches Dorothea’s shit-eating grin, and the brunette crosses herself solemnly.

-

Ingrid isn’t an impulsive person.

She’s able to get a decent grip on her emotions to make sure she thinks things through before jumping into them. When faced with emotional situations, she usually does the right thing. Even when she and Dorothea broke up, she had handled the situation as well as she could. She’s generally able to get a clamp on her feelings well enough that she doesn’t do anything rash.

Ingrid is also aware that it’s five to four, and she’s nervously waiting outside the pastor’s house, probably about to get railed by his daughter.

This definitely counts as impulsive, but damn, last Saturday was incredible. Half the thrill was from breaking her schedule in such a satisfying way, and the other half is because of the sexy woman in the massive house in front of her.

So she rings the bell, and waits.

The door opens soon enough, and there she is, still wearing that damn skirt from this morning, leaning on the door lightly.

“Right on time,” says Mercedes, mouth quirking upwards.

Ingrid looks away, embarrassed. “Well, um…you said four.”

Mercedes laughs at that, reaching for her hand and pulling her inside.

The house is really nice, with marble countertops and minimalist modern design, but she doesn’t have too much time to admire the interior design because Mercedes is pulling her into an open-mouthed kiss.

She yanks herself away with, “Wh-What about your dad?”

“There’s evening mass on Sundays,” she says, toying with the top button of Ingrid’s shirt. Her eyes twinkle, and she says, “But if you were a devout believer, you’d know that.”

Ingrid swallows. “Well, I believe that’s why I’m here,” she mumbles.

Mercedes’ eyes gleam at the prospect, and she’s dragging her to her bedroom on the first floor. She pulls Mercedes in for another kiss, demanding and urgent, and the taller girl responds with equal passion.

Her hands are roaming across Ingrid teasingly, running just above or below her breast or tickling her neck. Ingrid pushes her against the wall, kissing her furiously.

A soft moan, and Ingrid drops her head to latch onto her soft neck.

“Excited to learn, are we?” She sounds breathless.

Ingrid grunts in assent, and reaches up to fondle Mercedes’ breasts through her shirt. As Mercedes’ moan, she licks her way up the column of her throat. Mercedes’ hands ghost across her shoulders to wrap around her neck, and Ingrid leans upward for another kiss.

She guides the taller woman backward until they stumble against the bed. Mercedes pulls Ingrid down with her, and Ingrid straddles the other woman’s lap. Their lips part with a wet sound, and the intent in Mercedes’ eyes send shivers through Ingrid.

“Why don’t you show me how you pray,” breathes Mercedes.

Then slender fingers grip the top of her head, and she’s being pushed down.

Her knees hit the floor with embarrassing speed, and Mercedes, sitting at the edge of the bed, reaches to her side to untie her skirt. Ingrid helps her pull it off, and is rewarded with the sight of long, supple legs.

Mercedes actually spreads for her, and Ingrid nearly comes on the floor.

“Well? Is that it?” she teases, as Ingrid tries to compose herself.

Ingrid meets her teasing smile and shakes her head, inching forward until those creamy thighs surround her senses. She lightly runs her hand across her inner thigh, looking up to gauge Mercedes’ reaction.

She has her lower lip between her teeth, face flushed. Ingrid grins at the sight.

Leaning forward to press a kiss onto the soft skin, Ingrid gets to worshipping.

She ghosts her hands along Mercedes’ legs, and sucks on the soft skin of her thigh, following it up with a slow lick. Mercedes moans, slipping her hand through Ingrid’s hair, and a wicked thought flashes through her mind.

Ingrid opens her mouth against the skin and bites.

“O-Oh, Ingrid!”

The sound of her name from Mercedes’ lips drives her wild. Her thighs clamp around her head for a moment, and honestly, if this is how she goes, she’d be happy.

Mercedes releases her, and gasps, “What was that for?”

Ingrid grins up at her, enjoying the way her thighs quiver.

“Payback for what you did to me last week,” she says. Mercedes huffs playfully, and Ingrid presses an apologetic kiss to the darkened skin.

She drags her tongue towards the edge of her panties. They’re damp, she notes with satisfaction, and she kisses the middle, revelling in the shiver that runs through the woman above her. Hooking her thumb on the edge, she pulls the panties down with Mercedes’ help.

Ingrid licks her lips.

Pulling Mercedes’ legs around her shoulders, Ingrid licks a long line up her arousal. Mercedes hums in approval. As she reaches the top, she flicks her clit softly, from side-to-side, and Mercedes moans softly. Ingrid’s every sense is consumed by her.

Hands tighten in her hair, and the stimulus shoots down her body, settling into the heat between her legs. Ingrid dips her head down to lick at Mercedes’ entrance with renewed vigour, ending each movement with a soft kiss to her clit.

She’s so wet. Ingrid pushes her tongue into her entrance. A tight cry fills the room as she moves her tongue inside and out slowly. She shifts her angle to make her nose bump her clit, and the touch has Mercedes grabbing her hair tighter. Ingrid dips her tongue in deeper, and curves it slightly.

Mercedes moans loudly, head thrown back, neck tight, and Ingrid does it again.

“M-My,” she gasps. “I underestimated how g-good of a worshiper you a-are.”

Ingrid pulls back, enjoying the way Mercedes whimpers at the loss. A sticky line of arousal follows her face. Ingrid looks up, licking her lips and dragging a hand across her chin. Mercedes is biting her lip, chest heaving, thighs trembling.

_Oh, Goddess._

“Oh, I’m very dutiful,” breathes Ingrid, and slips two fingers into Mercedes. She hooks and curls, the gasps coming out of Mercedes encouraging her to pick up the speed.

Ingrid wants another taste, so she leans forward again to kiss her clit. At Mercedes’ desperate gasp, she teases it with her tongue, before opening her lips and sucking.

Mercedes lets out a high-pitches cry, and Ingrid sucks harder. Her fingers are working furiously, pumping in and out of her with loud, wet sounds. Both of Mercedes’ hands are in her hair, and desperate moans fill the room.

“Oh, yes, yes, I-I’m so close, Ingrid, oh, _Ingrid_ —”

She comes with a sharp cry, and Ingrid is flooded with wetness, but she keeps her pace through the tremors that overtake her thighs. Her hips are grinding against her fingers and face, and she moves with the movements, slowing down gently, until the wave has passed.

Ingrid looks up, and sees Mercedes panting softly, a dazed smile on her face. She licks her lips at the sight, and is rewarded with the taste of Mercedes again.

“Have I proved my devotion?” asks Ingrid from the floor.

Soft hands trace her cheeks, and tug her gently upward. Ingrid obliges, and she’s pulled into a deep kiss. Mercedes’ tongue is lazy and sloppy when compared to the desperation from earlier, and Ingrid feels a smirk grow on her face.

“Most certainly,” hums Mercedes, kissing her jaw softly.

Ingrid grins, turning her head to kiss her again. But then Mercedes is flipping them over on the bed, pushing her down onto the sheets and straddling her hips. There’s a glint in her eye that sends a shiver through Ingrid – they’re not done quite yet.

“I’m a big fan of prayer, you know,” she purrs.

-

Ingrid’s body feels light. Mercedes is curled up next to her, breathing softly into her neck. They’re sweaty and exhausted, but Ingrid can’t help but smile as she runs her hand through Mercedes’ short hair as they lay in a naked tangle on the bed. It’s like she’s floating on a cloud, senses dull and lazy, in the quiet of her room.

Quiet that is broken by Ingrid’s stomach rumbling loudly.

Mercedes’ head shoots up as Ingrid stiffens. “Ah, I’m sorry.” A hot flush crawls down her throat.

There’s a beat, and Mercedes’ head drops to Ingrid’s shoulder again. Laughter tickles her skin and their bodies shake.

“Still hungry, are you?” Blue eyes meet hers teasingly.

Ingrid clears her throat. “A…A little, yeah.”

“I made some cookies this morning. Would you like some?”

“Well, um. That would be nice, actually.”

Mercedes bites her lip in a failed attempt to hide her smile. “Alright then, come on.”

She moves away to slip into her clothes, and Ingrid grabs hers from the floor. Once dressed, they make their way downstairs and into the kitchen.

Father Martritz’s house is massive. It’s modern and sleek and not at all a house you’d expect a pastor to have. Ingrid counts a few crosses here and there, included into the décor in what she assumes to be a tasteful manner.

The kitchen too, is impressive, with appliances of all types lining the counters and a double oven on one end. Mercedes makes her way to the double-door fridge and rummages about for something as Ingrid leans on the kitchen island.

“Your house is nice,” she says.

Mercedes turns to shoot her a smile. “My adoptive father handled all the décor.”

“Adoptive father? Father Martritz…” Ingrid trails off, realising she might sound rude.

“…is my adoptive father, yes,” says Mercedes, placing the cookies onto a tray. She pushes them into the oven and shuts the door with a click. She turns and smiles at Ingrid, eyes twinkling again. “Why, do we look like each other?”

“Not at all,” says Ingrid. She sighs. “I didn’t know you were his daughter.”

“Would you not have picked me up at the club if you knew?” There’s a playful lilt in her voice.

“I hardly consider what I said that night as ‘picking up’…” grumbles Ingrid, wincing. Mercedes laughs and moves closer, placing her hands on the island and trapping Ingrid. “Probably not, no,” she admits.

Mercedes smiles at that, pleased with her honesty.

“But…I’m glad I did.”

Soft lips press her cheek. “You’re sweet.”

Ingrid ignores the heat in her cheeks, and asks, “Where were you before this?”

“I stayed with my mother in Arianrhod.”

“Oh, I’ve never been. What brings you here, then?”

The oven beeps, but Ingrid catches the look that flashes in her eye before she turns. “I came to help my father out. He’s getting a little old, after all.”

She opens the door, and the room is flooded with the smell of chocolate and sugar. Ingrid feels her mouth water as she eyes the tray in Mercedes’ hands.

A soft giggle followed by a warning to be careful, and the tray is placed next to her. She grabs a soft cookie and takes a big bite. It’s fucking delicious. Eyes wide and mouth full, she turns to Mercedes.

“Do you like it?” she giggles.

Ingrid swallows. “It’s amazing,” she says, and then scarfs down three cookies. She freezes as the fourth comes to her lips, and makes eye-contact with Mercedes, who is trying to stifle a laugh. “S-Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I’m glad you like them,” she says.

Ingrid takes a decent-sized bite, chews as properly as she can and swallows politely before asking, “Are you liking it here?”

Mercedes eyes rake her body, and Ingrid nervously takes a bite of the cookie. “So far, I’m liking it _very_ much,” she says huskily.

Ingrid chokes on her bite. Mercedes laughs again.

“But I haven’t gotten a chance to see much in town,” she continues, her tone playful. “I’m busy between here, the church, and a few friends’ houses. Do you know the city well?”

“Born and raised,” said Ingrid. “It’s a great town.”

“I’m sure it is,” hums Mercedes.

Ingrid takes another bite of the amazing cookie. Damn, this girl can bake. Mercedes watches her with an expectant smile.

“What?”

“You’re not going to offer to show me around? Give me your number?”

“Oh!” Right, she wanted to do that. “Yes, I was going to, um, I got side-tracked by the-” Ingrid puts the cookie down. “Uh, nervemind.”

Mercedes is laughing again. Ingrid is turning crimson from embarrassment again.

“You’re very cute,” says Mercedes, draping her arms around her neck.

Ingrid holds her waist. “I’m…not very smooth,” she admits.

“Haven’t you heard? Getting distracted by cookies gets all the ladies.”

“Oh, stop it.”

Mercedes giggles, and brushes some hair out of Ingrid’s face. She’s smiling too, now.

“There’s a nice Almyran restaurant in town. If you’d like, we could go together.”

Mercedes nods, and kisses her before saying, “It’s a date.”

``   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry church stans. i got horny
> 
> follow me on Twitter [ @sadsambharsobs ](https://twitter.com/sadsambharsobs), all the amazing art is by my fellow mad lad [ @yoctogram_ ](https://twitter.com/yoctogram_)


	3. Your Divine Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want to talk about it? I’ve been told I’m a great listener.” A soft thumb strokes her cheek.
> 
> Ingrid shakes her head. “I want…” She doesn’t want to talk about it. She wants to pretend it never happened. But Mercedes is warm and her eyes are gentle, and she knows she can ask, so she does. “I want to forget.”
> 
> The gentle twinkle is replaced with something ferocious and hungry. “I’m very good at that, too.”

Over the next few days, Ingrid learns more about Mercedes.

Mercedes is a few years older than her, and worked as a nurse in Arianrhod. She knows Annette from their time together in medical school. Mercedes loves baking and sweets. Mercedes has a spot on her neck that drives her wild. She’s incredibly devout, and prays every day. She prefers horror movies over rom-coms.

Ingrid’s phone pings, and oh. It’s a message from Mercedes.

She opens it, and is greeted with the sight of Mercedes in just lacy underwear, on her knees before her mirror. Thighs spread apart and chest bare, the photo reveals plush breasts and hard, pert nipples that has Ingrid licking her lips. Her one hand sneaks it’s way to the edge of her underwear, while the other holds the phone and captures the sultry, hooded look Mercedes throws at the mirror. Ingrid’s mouth goes dry – she knows that look very well by now. The message beneath reads, ‘ _A pick-me-up for work, and a promise for after ;)_ ’.

Mercedes is also, Ingrid is learning quickly, a raunchy texter.

Ingrid swallows. She’s at work. Her colleagues are sitting in the booths a few feet away. Her eyes race over the picture again. She’s at the police station, for Sothis’ sake. She can’t be this horny on the clock.

She can’t look away from the picture.

“Hey, Ingrid.”

Ingrid locks her phone and flings it away from her as fast as she can. Whipping around, she sees Sylvain rolling towards her in his chair, holding a case file.

“About that robbery on Fourth Street,” he begins. Ingrid tries to quell her warm cheeks, but Sylvain being Sylvain, notices. A sly grin slides across his face, and he says, “Oh? What’s the matter, Ingrid?”

Sylvain knows because Sylvain finds out about these things, even if Ingrid doesn’t tell him. Dorothea’s penchant for gossip aside, Ingrid has always had an easy face to read, and her childhood friend knew, instantly, when she showed up for work last Monday.

He had howled with laughter at her tomato-red face then, when they had taken a break to get coffee for the entire station. She had elbowed him in the side, but that hadn’t stopped him from teasing her and (this isn’t confirmed but Ingrid has a sinking suspicion) plotting with Dorothea.

Ingrid isn’t really mad at him, though. She’d just like to not discuss personal matters in her workplace. Nevermind that she had just been ogling at Mercedes’ body in said workplace twenty seconds ago.

“Nothing,” she hisses.

“Is it really nothing? Why’re you turning red, then?” he coos. From her peripheral vision, she notices Dimitri’s and Felix’s faces pop up from their respective booths. Now with an audience, Sylvain flourishes his hand dramatically and wears a mocking frown. “You know we shouldn’t entertain personal calls in the workplace unless it’s an emergency,” he says.

“Says the man who tried to pick-up a woman filing a missing person case,” growls Ingrid.

“Hey, she looked like she needed a distraction, but speaking of distractions, Ingrid, tell us, who messaged you?”

Ingrid throws a glare at Dimitri and Felix, who vanish quickly. Sylvain, however, has gotten used to her death glare, and just waggles his eyebrows.

“Shut it,” she says, turning away from him.

He rolls closer, undeterred, and stage-whispers, “Is it the church girl?”

“Oh!” comes Dimitri’s deep voice. “Is this the one you were telling us about, Sylvain?”

Ingrid whips around to look at Dimitri, who realises his mistake only when he meets her shocked gaze. He tries to backtrack, but by then she’s launched a fist at Sylvain, who ducks to barely miss it.

“You told them?” she hisses angrily.

“That turtleneck told us plenty,” notes Felix.

Ingrid gapes, mouth moving like a fish, as Sylvain tries to stifle laughter.

Dimitri, well-intentioned, says, “Why don’t you invite her to the party on Saturday?”

“Yeah, you should!” says Sylvain. “I want to see her, she must be crazy hot if _you_ went back to church—”

He ducks another punch, but Dimitri continues, “I would like to meet who you are seeing as well.”

“No, no—Sylvain, shut the fuck up—we’re not…it’s not…”

Dimitri cocks his head like a confused dog.

“It’s nothing like that…” she sighs. “It’s just casual.”

There’s a second of silence, before Felix snorts.

“What?”

“You’ve grown up so much,” laughs Sylvain, faux-wiping away a tear.

“Get back to work, idiots!”

-

Ingrid isn’t one for parties, preferring to catch some shut-eye at home, but Sylvain is throwing a party for Dimitri’s latest promotion to head constable, and so of course she’s going.

“Wow,” gapes Ashe, and she has to agree.

Sylvain’s house is massive – his father does own one of the largest logistic business in all of Fodlan – and she has many fond memories growing up in the house, playing with the boys in the sprawling gardens.

“Yeah,” she agrees. She thinks of her house, and then tucks the thought away quickly. “Let’s go, there must be waiting for us.”

They were balancing many little boxes of snacks in their hands, courtesy of Ashe, who had offered to make some treats for the night. As they near the penthouse, Ingrid hears the music, and opens the door with her elbow to let Ashe in.

They enter to a roar of greetings, but Ingrid is currently worried about how the topmost box in her hands is going to fall. She quickly places her load on the bar island – yes, it’s a fancy penthouse – and then turns to the crowd with a smile.

Aside from the boys, Dorothea is also there, as is Petra, the foreigner who recently joined Edelgard’s company. The platinum blonde and her frightening shadow are yet to arrive. Of course Dedue is here, and Raphael is next to him, excitedly watching as stoic man carefully plates the food. Hilda is flirting with Sylvain, she notes with a wince, but Marianne and Felix stand close by to keep their extroverts in check.

Dorothea wraps her up in a perfumed hug. “How do I look,” she whispers.

“Amazing,” says Ingrid, and then leans back, smiling.

Dorothea pulls away to give Ashe a quick hug, before turning to the woman behind her and saying, “Petra, these are my friends Ashe and Ingrid. You two, this is Petra. She recently joined Edie’s company.”

“I come from Brigid, so my English isn’t very good, so I hope you can forgive me,” says the woman in perfect English. “It’s an honour to meet Dorothea’s friends.”

“Oh, Petra, you’re very sweet,” titters Dorothea, and Ingrid rolls her eyes. Ashe, always excited to learn about different cultures – more specifically, their cuisines – engages with the girl. Dorothea turns to Ingrid and notices her expression. “Don’t.”

“If you waggle your eyelashes anymore, they’ll fall off.”

“Shut up and get us drinks,” says Dorothea, waving her empty glass. “And you’d better wing-woman me properly.”

“Dorothea,” groans Ingrid.

“I went to church for you.”

“Fine.”

The party is just loud enough for Ingrid to not talk and busy herself with the snacks she helped Ashe make and the divine food prepared by Dedue. Dimitri looks very happy, she notes between a massive bite, as he laughs at something Marianne says. He catches her looking at him, and laughs when he sees the plate in her hands.

“Already?” he mouths.

“I’m hungry!” she mouths back. He laughs, deep and happy, and then turns back to Marianne. Ingrid can feel her smile bloom as she takes another bite, pretending to pay attention to one more of Dorothea’s stories on the latest play.

The door slams open and Annie stumbles in. “Sorry we’re late!” she announces. “We just got so busy baking the cake and the sweets and then I accidentally added too much sugar so we had to damage-control and—”

“Easy now Annie, you might drop the boxes.”

Ingrid pointedly ignores the mischievous smiles Dorothea and Sylvain shoot her as Mercedes steps through the door.

This is fine. She didn’t think Mercedes would be here, but if Annette was coming, there’s little doubt she wouldn’t she brought her friend along. Ingrid is fine, and Mercedes is fine too, because those jeans really hug her hips in a way that—this burrito is delicious. She’s taking another bite.

Their eyes meet, and Mercedes tosses her a wink.

Ingrid is only thinking about her burrito and not what they did the other night. Nothing else.

Once they’ve deposited their goodies, Annette marches up to Ashe and pulls him into a hug, making the poor boy turn crimson. Ingrid smiles at him, amused.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

“H-Hey, Mercedes. Um. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Annie invited me over to meet her friends,” she says. Her eyes rake over Ingrid. “You look very good tonight.”

Ingrid tries to ignore the heat rushing to her cheeks, but by then Sylvain has come over and thrown an arm around Mercedes’ shoulders.

“Why, hello there,” he says. “I’m Sylvain, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sylvain. I’m Mercedes.”

He shoots Ingrid a shit-eating smile, and then turns back and says, “Is this the Mercedes I’ve heard so much about? Well, the rumours are true then. You really are as beautiful as the Goddess.”

Ingrid glares at him, but he’s not looking at her.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you to say.”

“But I mean it. Won’t you bless me tonight, my Goddess?”

“Sure, sure.”

The flippancy in her voice is devastating, and Sylvain’s smirk falls from his face. Dorothea is howling with laughter, Annette and Ashe with her. Even Petra hides a smile behind her hand. The serene smile on Mercedes’ face does little to help Sylvain, and Ingrid finds herself laughing, too.

“I like you,” announces Dorothea, wiping at her eyes. “Mercedes, right? Let me make you a drink.” She shoots Ingrid a sly grin, and Ingrid’s smile is quickly replaced with dread. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“Dorothea—” The brunette knows too much about Ingrid. This is dangerous. But by then, Dorothea has slipped her hand through Mercedes’, and calling her 'Mercie' and pulling her to the bar. A small, bewildered smile on her face, Mercedes lets herself get dragged away, Annette and Ashe in tow.

“Oof,” mutters Sylvain. “Now that’s a woman.”

Ingrid turns to him with a glare. “Don’t even think about it.”

His grin turns sly. “But aren’t you two just casual?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Totally is the point.”

“Shut up.”

“So selfish, Ingrid. It’s very unbecoming.”

“I’ll stab your leg.”

Sylvain raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll stay away. But can I be honest with you, Ingrid?”

“No.”

“She’s incredibly hot,” he continues. “I’m so proud of you. Let me know when I can go in because I would one hundred per cent—”

Ingrid grabs her fork, and Sylvain dances away from the stab with a laugh. He blows her a kiss and walks off. She huffs angrily, and turns to the bar. She needs to make sure Dorothea doesn’t tell Mercedes too much. For now though, the two of them look like they’re getting along. It should give her comfort, but she doesn’t trust either of them. So she intervenes.

Mercedes smiles at her when she approaches.

“Sorry about that,” she says, softly. She can see Dorothea pretending to be very interested in her nails in the back.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. He’s the flirtatious type, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” sighs Ingrid. Mercedes giggles. “But he’s actually very nice, so don’t worry. He’s just an idiot.”

Mercedes laughs. “You know him well?”

“Oh, yeah. Um, Sylvain, Felix—” she waves at him, “—Dimitri—” she points to him, “and I have known each other since we were children. So I’m very used to their antics.”

“Antics?”

“Don’t get me started,” grumbles Ingrid, a smile spreading across her face as she remembers the fuckery those boys have gotten into over the years, and the cleaning up she had to do after. Mercedes giggles at her. She doesn’t have a drink, she notices. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Are you trying to make me feel comfortable, now?” teases Mercedes.

“W-Well, you don’t know anyone else, and so I thought I’d—Um, that’s so say, not that you can’t take care of yourse—”

“But I do know Annie, Dorothea here, now Sylvain, Felix and Dimitri,” says Mercedes, teasing smile still on her face.

“W-Well, I just…uh…”

Mercedes laughs. “I’m just teasing, Ingrid.”

Ingrid sighs, feeling a smile tug at her lips. “You can be very difficult, sometimes.”

“Oh, but not when it comes to you.”

Ingrid clears her throat. Dorothea has a delighted smile on her face that she does not like. Mercedes laughs, and says, “I’ll drink anything that’s sweet.”

Ingrid nods, and excuses herself to make Mercedes a drink. She shoots Dorothea a warning glare, but the brunette ignores her as she starts off on another story for the crowd. It’s another dating horror story, and Ingrid chortles at Ashe’s reactions, the boy unused to Dorothea’s theatrics.

She slides back next to Mercedes, and hands her the drink. She’s rewarded with a kiss on her cheek, and Ingrid feels her face heat up. Clearing her throat, she steps a little away from Mercedes, focusing on Dorothea, who has, curse her, noticed.

“Speaking of dating horror stories,” she coos. “My Ingrid, don’t you have one for us, from long ago?”

Ingrid swallows thickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, remember how you told me about that girl and—”

Ingrid loudly cuts her off, turning to Annette. “So! Annette! How is the research coming along?”

She hears Mercedes giggle, but focuses on the ginger’s laments on how medical research is the most exhausting job, and that all labs must have a nap corner and snack counter to maintain employee sanity. Ingrid doesn’t know anything about medical research, so she just nods and agrees with her.

The party goes on. Sylvain has everyone take shots once, just to prove a point to Felix, and Ingrid sighs. They might have a half-day tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean they get shit-faced. She keeps an eye on Dorothea, and the brunette innocently waggles her eyelashes at her between not-so-innocently waggling her eyelashes at Petra.

They decide to cut the cake, and after covering Dimitri’s face with frosting, Sylvain turns to her excitedly. “We should open some champagne!”

“Ah, Sylvain, it’s just a promotion—” protests Dimitri, but he’s cut off by the red-head.

“A promotion you worked your ass for. Hey, Ingrid, you know where the wine cellar is, right?” She nods. “Could you get us some champagne? It’s right at the back of the cellar. Pick any one, don’t worry. I told my old man we’d be taking some of his bottles.”

Ingrid makes the trek to the wine cellar, located a bit further away from the penthouse. The house – more like a manor – is all lit up, despite there being only three people in it. She winces at the gardens. It’s all too much.

The wine cellar is more like a wine shed, and Ingrid punches in the key-code. The air inside is cool against her skin, and she travels back until she finds the champagne, marked by the year. She knows nothing about the drink, so she picks out random bottles and reads the labels, hoping those would help.

The cellar door opens, and she hears someone enter. Craning her neck, she spots Sylvain’s father, whose eyebrows shoot up when he sees her.

“Ah, Ingrid. So nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too, sir,” she says, smiling. “How are you?”

“Ah, doing well,” he says, smiling. His hair is greyer now, she notices with a pang. “Things go on as usual. Here to pick up a bottle, eh?”

“Oh—Sylvain asked for champagne, but...”

“Oh? Let me help you. Here—” he says, pulling out a bottle. “This is a good one, it’s very light but it has a wonderful nutty flavour.” Sylvain’s father has always been one for expensive tastes, something he passed down to his son, and Ingrid accepts the bottle, smiling gratefully and thanking him.

“What’s the occasion, now?” he asks, smiling.

“Dimitri got a promotion at work,” she says, feeling her smile widen proudly. “He’s now the head constable at the station. So we wanted to celebrate, a little.”

“Ah.” The smile is gone from his face.

Ingrid’s smile falters.

“Still doing that now, are you lot?”

Dread fills her stomach. She swallows, and then nods. The older man sighs.

“You four all have family businesses to look out for,” he chides. The words smack her face and bubble angrily in her stomach. “This is a waste of time. Honestly, Ingrid, I thought you would smack some sense into Sylvain like you usually do, but when I found out that you, too…”

It’s getting difficult to breathe in this damp, dingy cellar.

“Ah well,” continues the older man, shaking it off quickly. “You will learn soon enough. Go ahead with your party now, and I’ll see you soon, then.”

Dimly, she hears herself say, “See you soon too, sir.”

Ingrid is scrambling out of the cellar as fast as she can. The night chill is settling in now, but that’s not why she’s shaking. They all have family businesses to go back too, her especially. Utilizing some breathing exercises to calm herself down, Ingrid sprints towards the penthouse.

The mood there is still light, and Ingrid lets someone take the bottle from her hands. A pop and a cheer, and glasses clinking and sloshing liquor on the floor. There’s loud laughter and cheering and spirits abound. Ingrid needs a minute.

She slips out when Sylvain begins pouring the champagne down Dimitri’s throat. Hugging herself, she looks at the massive house, the well-manicured gardens, and the stupid fucking wine cellar.

They used to have all that.

She knows her father has the same number of grey hairs as Sylvain’s father does, and she knows how the calls have been longer and needier. Ingrid has grown up with the financial losses of her father’s company, and the weight of lifting those away. Be it through marrying up or taking over the company, her father doesn’t care. She’s the solution in his eyes.

Soft hands touch her shoulder, and she jumps.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Mercedes.

“Mercedes,” breathes Ingrid. This night is not going well. “Um. Hello.”

“Hi,” she says, smiling softly. “It’s loud in there, isn’t it?”

“Y-Yeah.”

A silence.

“Is everything alright?” hums Mercedes, slipping her fingers through hers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah, no, nothing.” Ingrid shrugs it off.

“How disappointing. I’ve been wanting to find a haunted house in this town for a long time.” Mercedes’ tone is light and airy.

Ingrid feels a smile tug at the older girl’s words. “We have that. It’s all the way on the other side of town.”

An excited glimmer in Mercedes’ eye makes her chuckle weakly.

“I’ll take you there, if you want.”

“Oh, that would be lovely. Annie’s too afraid to help me out.”

Another silence, where slips her hand across her cheek and tugs her face up. Her eyes have gentle concern in them.

“Do you want to talk about it? I’ve been told I’m a great listener.” A soft thumb strokes her cheek.

Ingrid shakes her head. “I want…” She doesn’t want to talk about it. She wants to pretend it never happened. But Mercedes is warm and her eyes are gentle, and she knows she can ask, so she does. “I want to forget.”

The gentle twinkle is replaced with something ferocious and hungry. “I’m very good at that, too.”

-

Ingrid thinks she will never get tired of seeing Mercedes wearing a strap.

Cloth straps clutching ample thighs and hugging gorgeously full hips, the silicon stands below a soft stomach as she lubes it up. Mercedes strokes it slowly, stickily. Her breasts sit heavy, rising and falling with her breath, nipples firm and tight. She glances up then, and notices Ingrid watching. A wicked smile spreads across gentle lips, before her concentration snaps back.

Ingrid asked to forget, and knows Mercedes will deliver.

Mercedes shuffles her way to Ingrid, and she wets her lips in anticipation. Soft lips find hers, before slipping lower to nip and suck at trembling skin. A searing bite at her neck, a molten suck at the breast, and a fiery lick at her stomach has her whimpering.

Pulling back, the older woman admires her with a teasing smile.

“Open up, Ingrid.”

The sentence settles in her groin, and her knees and her thighs part urgently.

“I love it when you spread for me.”

Mercedes kisses her again, hot and demanding, and Ingrid grabs her to pull her closer. When their lips part, it’s with a desperate whine from her and a delighted laugh from Mercedes.

She lines herself up with Ingrid, and then pushes in the tip, slowly. Ingrid’s eyes flutter, and she waits for the stretch. Mercedes pushes in all the way, and Ingrid arches into her. Mercedes takes the skin offered before her with her mouth and sucks and bites, leaving marks on Ingrid’s neck that she knows she won’t be able to hide tomorrow.

“So wet for me,” coos Mercedes, and then slaps her hips against Ingrid so hard it leaves her breathless.

Her pace picks up, relentless and unyielding, stretching her out and filling her up in ways that has her gasping moans and breathing curses. Mercedes leans back, and her eyes meet hers as another well-aimed thrust makes her eyes roll back and mouth fall open.

Mercedes stops, pulling out until she’s just barely grazing against Ingrid’s aching walls. Her hips buck, but Mercedes has them trapped with her hands, and soft, shallow thrusts keep her pleasure just out of reach.

“Mercedes,” she whimpers.

The taller woman brushes sweaty hear off her face and hums non-committedly. Her head drops to pepper open-mouthed kisses on her neck, and Ingrid grabs her shoulders and pulls her closer, gasping needily.

“So impatient,” mumbles Mercedes into her neck. Her pace hasn’t increased. “Now, that won’t do.”

Teeth yank the sensitive flesh of her neck, and it draws out a pathetic, “Please, harder.”

The force with which her hips slam into her whisks away the breath left in Ingrid’s lungs, and she can only let out a disjointed, broken sound as Mercedes resumes the relentless pace as before. She knows exactly where Ingrid is sensitive, and carries on the assault with a searing, open-mouthed kiss.

When they part, Mercedes smiles down at her, her own breath coming out in short, rapid breaths through the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Ingrid reaches for her ass and pulls with her every push, her grip so hard it leaves bright red marks on generous thighs.

The pleasure stretches inside of her, and Ingrid can feel it building, lazily, inside her stomach. Her mouth hangs open as Mercedes pushes out desperate, short moans with each thrust. It’s unfurling now, like a flower in bloom, and just a little more and—

Mercedes stops.

She’s buried to the hilt in Ingrid, trapping her hips with her thighs, hands ghosting up her trembling legs. There’s a dastardly smile on her face as Ingrid shakes and arches and swears and moans.

“—so close—” she hisses.

“Oh, were you?” wonders Mercedes wickedly, pressing a kiss to her breastbone. Ingrid feels the desperation shudder through her body as Mercedes lazily kisses a path up her neck. She leans back, and Ingrid sees the teasing twinkle in her eyes. “The last time, you were sore for days.”

“Please, please, I can take it, please—”

“You’re sure, now?” hums Mercedes, tilting her head.

“Please, fuck me until I can’t walk, can’t feel my legs, _Mercedes_ —”

And then Mercedes is adjusting their hips, and when moves again, the strap presses _that spot_ —

“Yes, yes, right there, don’t stop—”

Mercedes is moving so fast inside her that everything that isn’t Mercedes becomes unimportant. All Ingrid can focus on is the lightning speed of her hips, the way she’s smiling through her pants, the way her breasts swing as she resumes the pace as suddenly as she stopped.

It builds faster now, urgent and desperate and wanting. Ingrid can feel the flaming spikes shudder from her core to the very tips of her limbs, and pulse through her inner walls pulse alongside the cool silicone.

Mercedes hunches over her, and then thrusts hard, once, twice, and then—

Ingrid comes with a shaky scream, her body leaning into Mercedes’ soft form, as the tremors snake from her legs to their joined hips to her stomach to her chest and then finally her head, sending everything flying and scattering, blood thundering through her ears and pounding against her throat.

The symphony slows, and she can feel Mercedes moving slowly against her, breath hot against her ear. Her hips keep rolling as Ingrid comes down, lazily sliding inside and out until Ingrid wets her lips with a dry tongue and rasps, “Mercedes—”

“You said you could take it, right?” she whispers into her ear. “Then take it.”

Cool fingers catch her clit, already slick and throbbing, and circles slowly. Her thrusts become languid and drawn-out, pressing just enough to incite pleasure and not pain. Ingrid lets out a long groan that cracks into a hoarse cry when her finger catch a spot that sends a searing ripple through molten limbs.

Mercedes turns to see her, short bangs pressed against a sweaty forehead, hot pants tickling her warm cheek. Her hips curl back, and then forward, the movement slow but purposeful, her fingers working in tandem with her hips.

Her mind, still drifting from earlier, accepts the more limply. Every little movement has electricity shocking her spine and core. The sparks blur her vision, until she can see only whites and blacks and blues and light browns, and her brain is teased back into the plush, pulsing pleasure again.

Her throat is hoarse, she realises, because her breath catches, and distantly, she hears herself croaking, “Please…close…”

She can feel the flaming tendrils of her orgasm flick against the walls of her cunt and thrash in her core. Short, full thrusts and tight, quick circles bubbles through her body and explodes out of her mouth as a rough moan.

Ingrid comes with icy-hot sparks curling her toes and trembling up her neck. Hot tears slip down cool temples, and the waves raze through her body. She’s launched into the warm sunlight again, and she floats with the soft clouds.

She drifts.

When she comes back, it’s to the wince of Mercedes pulling out and ghosting of gentle fingers against wet cheeks.

“Ingrid?”

She blinks, and tries to get her tongue to wet her dry lips.

“Was that okay?”

She nods.

Mercedes’ smile finally breaks through the haze, and then she’s leaning down to kiss her slowly, gently, bringing her back.

“Thank you,” croaks Ingrid.

“You’re so sweet,” mumbles Mercedes against her lips. Hers curve into a smile. “Thank you for letting me.”

-

Ingrid likes to eat more than cook, but she knows how to make a simple breakfast.

Bread. Eggs. Some kind of meat. Lettuce. Condiments on one side. And then just squish it all together and hope it doesn’t come apart twenty seconds later. It’s not the cuisine Ashe whips up in the mornings, but it’s tasty and filling.

“That smells nice,” hums Mercedes from behind her, and Ingrid turns to see her wearing her clothes from last night. Goddess, those legs.

“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “There’s some for you, if you’d like.”

Her gaze softens, and she says, “That’s sweet. Thank you.”

“No problem. Do you take coffee?”

“Tea, please. Whatever you have.”

And that’s how they’re sitting at the dining table, Mercedes cradling a blue mug with some tea Ashe had bought, and Ingrid digging into her sandwich. Mercedes watches her put it away with an amused smile.

Ingrid feels her face heat up, and asks to change the subject, “Did you have fun last night?”

“A lot of fun,” winks Mercedes.

“Uh, that’s…um…”

Mercedes laughs. Ingrid smiles ruefully with her.

“I meant at the party.”

“It was lovely.” Her eyes soften, and she says, “Your friends were very sweet.”

“Don’t listen to anything they said,” she warns. “Especially Dorothea.”

“So the story she told me about the girl with the rabid dog isn’t true.”

 _Damn you, Dorothea._ “N-Not at all.”

Mercedes hums, eyes twinkling over her mug.

They finish eating in silence, and Mercedes rises to leave. Something about a church service in the morning. Ingrid follows her to the door, and then finally manages, “Um…thanks. For last night. N-Not just the um…you know. But for the company.”

Mercedes smiles at her, sweetly, and reaches over to run a thumb across her cheek. “It’s no problem at all. You’re feeling a little better, at least?”

“Yeah.”

She smiles gently. Ingrid pulls her in for a kiss. Her lips are always soft, and her body is always warm. Mercedes leans back, and taps her cheek with a giggle.

“Call me again when you need ‘company’,” she says, and laughs when Ingrid covers her face.


	4. I've Got A Confession, Officer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My, my,” says Mercedes, breathless. “You look good in that uniform.”
> 
> Ingrid gulps, nervous. “It’s just a uniform,” she manages lamely.
> 
> “I wish I could show you what ‘just a uniform’ is doing to me right now," she husks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy early bday to my dude yocto. this ones for u my buddy

“I’m thinking of starting a charity drive in church,” hums Mercedes.

They’re curled up against each other in bed, warm skin pressed against warm skin, cool sheets across entwined bodies. Ingrid stops tracing senseless patterns on full hips, and looks at the woman in her arms.

Mercedes, in the short time Ingrid has known her, has proven to be the type that enjoys helping other people out, be it through charity through the church or baking Ingrid some cookies at two am after their nightly marathons left her stomach grumbling with need. Ingrid thinks she fits the image well – kind and patient and gentle and always listening.

But when she does talk, like she is now, there’s a strange look in her eyes. It’s not an uncomfortable gaze, just a very, very open one, but it leaves Ingrid groping around in the dark at the expectation.

“That sounds nice,” she says, slowly. “What kind of drive?”

Mercedes twists in her arms, propping herself up on Ingrid’s chest. “I was thinking…perhaps a food drive for the homeless. I remember you telling me there were many with substance abuse issues.”

Ingrid folds her hands behind her head, and nods, waiting for her to continue.

She hums, and tucks a piece of Ingrid’s hair behind her ear. “I thought of starting up a collection with the members in church, and that could go towards getting them a warm meal,” she says.

Ingrid mulls over her words, and Mercedes waits, again, in that open, open way.

“That sounds like a good plan,” she says finally.

Mercedes smiles. “But?”

Ingrid chuckles. “Some of those guys are a little rough,” she says.

The look shifts. “That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a hand.”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” says Ingrid hurriedly. Mercedes slips a little, and Ingrid catches her by the waist to keep her in place. “What I meant is that it’s better for everyone just to have some safety measures in place during the distribution.”

“You’re right,” wonders Mercedes, biting her lip. It’s cute. “How do I…?”

“Luckily, the local police are very helpful,” says Ingrid, grinning.

Blue eyes twinkle playfully. “How surprising.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that we’re not all like that.”

Mercedes presses a kiss to the tip of her nose apologetically, and hums, “And how can I enlist the help of these good cops?”

“Well, you’ll need to file the right papers at the station.”

Mercedes sighs, shaking her head, but she’s still smiling.

“Luckily for you-” and Ingrid is smiling, tracing the mole on Mercedes’ shoulder, “-you have an insider who’d be willing to speed up the process.” It’s for something good, she reasons. Also, Ingrid kind of wants to impress the beautiful, naked woman in her bed.

“Oh? Can I count on this insider?” Mercedes says, shuffling closer. Ingrid’s gaze is on full, pink lips, and she nods. A huff of laughter falls against her mouth. “And what about her payment?”

Ingrid pulls her in for a kiss then, and mumbles against her lips, “You can get started on that now.”

-

Judging by the fact that she and Sylvain are driving down to the Church on a Saturday afternoon, the drive was a success. Mercedes sounded ecstatic over text, and informed Ingrid that some volunteers and benefactors were going to be there, in addition to around fifty homeless people.

They pull up at the church, and while she checks all their equipment, Sylvain ruffles his hair in the rear-view mirror. She glares at him.

“What? The ladies love a man in a uniform.”

“We are on duty. Please remember that.”

“You remember that, too. After all, the beautiful Miss Mercedes is going to be here,” he says, shooting her a wink. She shuts the door on his shit-eating grin.

Volunteers have been at work for a while, judging by the long tables and benches laid out on the space before the church. Banners and small decorations adorn the furniture, and a large van with food stands parked nearby.

Pastor Martritz is busy barking orders at a few volunteers, and Mercedes – in a light turtleneck sweater and dark skirt – is busy pouring over a clipboard. She looks up when she hears the gravel crunch under Ingrid’s boots, and her gaze stays on Ingrid until they come closer.

“Ah, Sylvain, Ingrid. Good morning,” says Pastor Martritz. “Thank you for your assistance today. The Goddess appreciates your service.”

Ingrid nods, not knowing what to say. Sylvain, always having a better way with words than her, responds with a cheery, “I’m sure the Goddess is more appreciative of your service, pastor.” His gaze falls on a pretty volunteer, and turns wicked. “Seeing as we have some time, why don’t we help you out?”

“That would be greatly appreciated. Come with me now,” says the pastor, and walks away with the ginger in tow. Ingrid sighs, because they need to do a few rounds before the people come in, and that’s clearly not going to happen with Sylvain distracted.

“My, my,” says Mercedes, breathless. Ingrid looks at her, and immediately notices dark eyes. “You look _good_ in that uniform.”

She moves to stand close, hand lazily feeling the edges of her collar and tracing the badges on her chest. The look in her eyes is almost feral, and Ingrid gulps, nervous.

“It’s just a uniform,” she manages lamely.

“I wish I could show you what ‘just a uniform’ is doing to me right now,” she husks. The hand is now teasingly tugging her belt. “You look just ravishing, _officer_.”

Ingrid’s throat goes dry at the title, and arousal shoots down her body to settle between her legs.

Mercedes of course notices, because Ingrid is sure she’s doing this just to rile her up and tease her. It’s ridiculous how one sultry coo of ‘officer’ has her thinking about breaking her code of conduct in church. They’re not going to be able to do anything for hours, not with the food drive and the clean-up and everything after. But oh Goddess, does she want to drag Mercedes to the car and ravish her in the back seat.

The hand at her hip lifts, and Ingrid immediately misses it. “You’ll see soon enough, officer.” A wink, before Mercedes turns to walks away. Ingrid cannot tear her eyes away from her hips.

She’s working. She cannot be this turned on while she’s on duty. She’s a professional.

Ingrid manages to yank Sylvain away from the girl he’s flirting with to get their preparations done. About an hour later, more people begin pouring in – benefactors and homeless alike. Ingrid and Sylvain take their positions, and keep a careful eye on the proceedings.

Mercedes, amid ladling out food, hands out cups of chilled lemonade to the volunteers, and that includes both Ingrid and Sylvain. She can’t seem to be able to keep her hands to herself today, and hands Ingrid a cup with a flirtatious wink. In broad daylight and for everyone to see, Mercedes’ hands somehow manage to pull at a belt loop or skim over a shirt button, and that’s enough to make Ingrid choke on her drink.

Sylvain winks at her and mouths, _‘They love a uniform’_.

Aside from a very distracting and very good-looking woman, the proceedings seem to be going well. Ingrid is content enough surveying the crowd, maintaining order, and admiring Mercedes’ behind when she bends to pick up something all afternoon, but that changes when she notices a blonde couple walking towards the tables.

Had her parents had contributed to this? Their financial situation barely covers them for the next five years. What are they doing here?

Immediately, it becomes difficult to breathe. The serenity that usually surrounds religious places is replaced with a rush of blood in her ears. Ingrid only has to catch her mother’s strange expression for her uniform to suddenly feel too heavy on her shoulders.

“Father,” she manages, once they come close. “Mother. You’re…here.” They nod silently, and that flares a burst of anger somewhere in her stomach. “What are you doing here? Did you donate to this?”

Her father recoils a little at the hiss, and says, “Yes, we did. And before you say anything – remember there are people here.” His eyes meet her fiercely, and Ingrid tears her gaze from her father to her mother, who is still just looking at her, now with downturned lips.

Ingrid shakes her head. There’s anger trembling somewhere in her fists. “Unbelievable,” she whispers.

“The Goddess calls for charity to help the needy,” says her father sagely. “And we must help where we can.”

“But can we, really?”

“Ingrid, enough.” It’s her mother now, quiet and sad, and Ingrid clamps her mouth shut. There’s a tense moment of silence, before her mother mumbles something about saying hello to her friends, and wanders off.

She looks at her father incredulously. Her sighs at her expression.

“Let’s drop it,” he says, predictably.

“Of course,” she mutters.

Her father’s eyes flash. “Your mother thought that you might be more appreciative of this.”

“Why would I—”

“Father Martritz told us how you came for Sunday service. We thought you…”

Everything comes to a screeching halt.

“That’s not going to happen,” growls Ingrid. “Ever.”

They needed to know that the Ingrid who went to church service to pray for happiness was never coming back. Ingrid spent years trying to unlearn that person, no matter how much her parents wanted that version of herself.

Her father looks at her, sadness and sternness mixed in his gaze, before shaking his head and walking away. Sylvain catches her eyes from across the ground, and Ingrid shakes her head at the concern on his face.

She trembles as she watches her mother smiling and chatting with the women Ingrid remembers seeing in church, long ago. Her father shakes hands with Pastor Martritz, no doubt planning their next golfing trip. Even though they certainly can afford this, it doesn’t mean they should. Is this another thing they’re doing because they think Ingrid will clean up after them?

But then she notices the grey in her father’s hair, and the way her mother has more wrinkles around her eyes when she smiles, and the guilt kicks in again – fleeting, but strong – before she stomps it down with all the force she can muster. She shouldn’t have to clean up their messes, she reminds herself. It’s not her responsibility alone to fix their family’s financial woes.

Ingrid decides to ignore it by switching positions with Sylvain, and even though the ginger asks if she’s okay, she brushes it off. Not now, not here. But his gentle smile and whisper about the length of some girl’s skirt does make her feel better, even if all she does is bark at him.

She knows it’s in poor faith to glare at her parents as they shuffle about. The crowd is thinning, as people finish their meals and collect a packet of food, exiting slowly. Her parents seem to be in a deep conversation with Bernadetta’s parents.

Thankfully, she’s distracted from the sight by Mercedes walking towards her.

“Oh, officer,” she sighs, and Ingrid’s chest tugs wildly, “Can you help me with some boxes at the back?”

There’s a naughty smile on her face, and Ingrid resists the urge to roll her eyes at her act.

There are people here – specifically, her parents – and it would be unwise if they got caught. At the same time, Ingrid wants a break from the place, and Mercedes has always been a good distractor.

She nods, and follows Mercedes into the church.

Once they’re inside, Mercedes wastes no time in grabbing her by the hand and yanking her into a confessional booth. Before Ingrid can protest, she’s pushed up against her, and pressing a needy kiss to her lips.

“Wh— Here?!” whispers Ingrid.

“Nobody is going to come by,” breathes Mercedes. “And I was going mad just looking at you.” She tugs her collar to bring their lips together again, and Ingrid tries to supress a moan as she slips in a hot tongue. She’s gently pushed onto the bench, and Mercedes quickly straddles her, pressing kisses to her neck and jaw.

“You’re driving me crazy in that uniform,” moans Mercedes through kisses. “I want you to fuck me senseless.”

Ingrid swallows.

The older girl skims her hands up Ingrid’s hips and chest, cheeks bright with colour, eyes dark with desire. Ingrid toys with the buttons of her skirt, suddenly nervous. Mercedes threads her fingers through her hair and yanks her close, grinding against her lap.

Ingrid’s heart is beating fast, but this always happens when Mercedes is around. It’s fine.

Hot kisses against her lips and jaw, warm breasts pressed against her shirt, and molten-soft thighs around her legs. Mercedes is insistent and demanding, more so than usual, and Ingrid is fine. She wanted this, after all.

Suddenly, Mercedes pulls back. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“You’re…acting strange. Is something wrong?”

“Y-Yeah, no, everything is fine.” Ingrid makes to pull Mercedes closer, but a firm hand on her shoulder keeps her in place.

There it is again, that open, open gaze.

“We can stop, if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“No, no, that’s not…”

“Then what is it?”

Ingrid swallows the flood of emotions through her body, but Mercedes is nothing if not patient. It’s all roaring around her, pressure building, and if she doesn’t let at least some of it go, it’s going to explode inside her.

“My parents—” Ingrid gulps back the rest of the sentence. Too much, too soon.

Mercedes has shifted back, allowing her some more room for her thoughts to fester and raze what it can reach.

“I am supposed to—” Still not right.

Ingrid grunts angrily and shakes her head, wishing her thoughts would stop screaming through her head. Mercedes holds her chin gently, and forces her to meet her gaze.

Flames can only consume so much, and an open blue sky gives them little to latch onto. They temper until they reduce to embers licking raw edges, and Ingrid feels her body sag from the exhaustion.

“Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time?”

She winces at the weakness in her voice. Before she can snatch them back, however, Mercedes’ eyes have widened, and Ingrid thinks it looks like recognition. So she waits.

Soft fingers ghost over her cheek, and the way Mercedes is looking at her is different now. They’re in church so judgement seems like an accurate descriptor – but rather than the brimstone and fire she remembers fearing, it feels more like the slow curiosity of receding waves against a sandy shoreline.

“Yes,” Mercedes breathes, in the hushed tone saved only for blasphemy. “Like I’m on borrowed time, and I’m running out quickly.”

A lump forms in Ingrid’s throat.

Mercedes sighs out a weak laugh. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That feeling.”

Strange isn’t the word Ingrid would use – frightening, stifling, maybe even agonizing, but not ‘strange’.

“It makes the happy moments feel shorter, like I can’t ever get enough of it,” she says. Ingrid can’t tear her eyes away from her sad smile. “And…I’m more desperate to hold onto them, to remember them fully, because after my time is up, happiness might not…be an option anymore.”

Ingrid reaches for her hand, and threads their fingers together. Her chest hums, like a tuning fork echoing a familiar chord.

It’s cool in the confessional booth, with light pouring in only from the little holes in the woodwork above them. It speckles their joined hands, some parts bright, some parts still dark. Everything is quiet, for once, except for the sound of Mercedes breathing. Ingrid doesn’t remember a time when the church has been this quiet for her.

“I used to come here often, you know.”

A gentle thumb traces her knuckles. “To Church?”

“Every Sunday, with my parents. I went to all the camps, too.”

“Ah.” Ingrid can hear the amused smile on Mercedes’ face. “I can picture it now.”

She shakes her head, still looking at their entwined hands. “Please don’t. I used to wear these horrible…puffy…skirts.”

“A skirt, hm? While I’m a big fan of the accessibility…I don’t think that suits you.”

Ingrid finally looks up, and Mercedes is smiling softly. She lets herself smile, a little.

“Me neither. I stopped wearing them, eventually.”

“Good.” A hand comes to touch her cheek. “I quite like what you’re wearing now.”

There’s no teasing this time, so Ingrid says, “Some people would prefer the skirt.”

Mercedes hums. “Some people don’t see how happy you are now. I think you’ve chosen a wonderful outfit for yourself.”

The emotions are threatening to spill over, dangerously bubbling in her chest, so she decides to take the out. “I don’t think wonderful was the word you used before.”

Blue eyes shift from being as open as the sky back to a familiar naughty twinkle, and Ingrid is grateful.

“I believe I said ravishing. And I meant it.” Ingrid snorts. Mercedes is scooting closer, not-so-subtly tugging at her belt buckle. “Do you doubt my intentions, officer?”

The word seizes something powerful in her chest. She’s leaning up, breathing against Mercedes’ ear before she can stop herself, “I do. So come home tonight, and prove me wrong.”

The warm body in her arms shudders, and Mercedes nods. She makes to pull away, but Ingrid catches her by the back of her neck and pulls her closer.

The kiss is desperate.

-

Given her day, Ingrid wants to take a hot shower, slip into her pyjamas, have a massive meal, and just go to sleep.

But Mercedes has sent her a message with very particular instructions, and she thinks she’ll have to skip some of that. The bath and the meal stay, but Ingrid slips back into her uniform soon after, and based on Mercedes’ reaction to it in church today, sleep doesn’t seem too likely.

The door rings, and when Ingrid opens it, she’s immediately pulled into a kiss.

“It has to be a crime,” pants Mercedes, between kissing her and pushing her towards the bedroom, “for you to look so hot in that uniform.”

Ingrid is pushed up against the closed bedroom door, and Mercedes presses their bodies together. She really can’t keep her hands to herself – she tugs at Ingrid’s collar and skims over a button, traces her badges and pockets and yanks her closer with her belt-hoops.

Ingrid grins when Mercedes palms the front of her trousers, moaning when she feels it.

Flipping their positions, Ingrid grabs Mercedes’ wrists and pins her hands over her head. Blue eyes flare up, teeth catching a pink lip.

“Am I in trouble, officer?” she asks, coyly.

The feral monster in her chest rears up, and Ingrid growls, arousal thumping through her body. She crashes their lips together, biting her full lower lip and sucking, before shifting to a soft neck.

“I think you know the answer to that, Miss von Martritz.” Ingrid bites down, massaging the skin between her teeth, before letting go, only to lick at the bruised flesh. Mercedes shudders in her grasp, and Ingrid can’t help but smile into her neck wickedly.

“I h-have no idea what you mean, officer,” breathes Mercedes, as she continues ravishing her neck.

Ingrid slips a hand under her soft sweater and teases trembling flesh lightly. “Don’t play dumb.” She skates her hand up her stomach to her breasts, and her breath hitches when she realises that Mercedes isn’t wearing a bra. Was she wearing one in church today? “You know what you did.”

A pinch, and Mercedes gasps throatily. Ingrid feels the reverberations on her lips, and sucks again, hoping to leave as many marks as she can. Bunching up her skirt, she slips a leg between creamy thighs before pushing lightly, and Mercedes arches into her.

“O-Officer, that’s unfair.” Mercedes sounds breathless.

Another light rotation of her knee has Mercedes squirming, wrists pushing against her hand. Ingrid catches her lips again, and this time, she’s leading the kiss, demanding and relentless. They part with a wet sound, and Ingrid notes, satisfied, that Mercedes’ breathing is becoming more erratic.

“What’s unfair—” Ingrid kneads at her breast again. “—is the way you distracted me all day today.”

Yanking up her shirt with one hand, Ingrid lets her breasts spill out into the cool air of the room, and bends to catch a nipple in her mouth. It’s pert and firm in her mouth, and she flicks it with her tongue, before sucking hard.

Mercedes whimpers above her. “O-Officer Galatea—” another suck has Mercedes gasping again, Ingrid can feel her arousal pulsing between her legs, “—I can assure you, that wasn’t m-my intention.”

Ingrid leans back, leaving a spit-slicked nipple to harden in the cool air, and surveys Mercedes. The woman’s chest rises and falls rapidly, and her breasts sway with the motion, pink and wanting. Her face is flushed, and she’s biting her lip.

The coy smile on her face is reassurance enough, so Ingrid sighs dramatically, and pulls away from Mercedes, leaving her hands free.

“Well, if you won’t admit it—” and Ingrid cringes internally just a little before the next sentence, “—we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Mercedes grabs her collar with one hand and pulls her in for a kiss, her other hand fumbling at her pant button desperately. “I’m very interested in the hard way,” she says.

And she pulls down her zipper and band to pull out the strap.

Licking her lips and pushing Ingrid to sit on the edge of her bed, Mercedes eyes Ingrid like a predator about to pounce. Clearly, she was looking forward to this, Ingrid notes, given the instructions sent to her in the afternoon and her behaviour right now. Ingrid is only too happy to oblige.

But when Mercedes drops to her knees and kisses the end of her strap, Ingrid shudders.

Wet, full lips wrap around the end, and Mercedes bobs her head gently. It’s not real, Ingrid knows that, she can’t feel Mercedes’ lips on any part of her skin, but the sight alone is enough to send a red-hot bolt through her cunt and settle as a buzzing in her head.

Mercedes looks up at her through long eyelashes as her lips slowly inch along her strap, pausing for a second when they come close to the base. Ingrid moans, clutching the sheets and trying not to squirm as the wetness collects desperately between her legs. Mercedes pulls away, opening her mouth to drag her tongue along the bottom. She releases the strap – now slick with sweat – with a wet pop.

Ingrid knows her mouth is hanging open and she’s panting loudly through it, but she’s very sure she can’t do anything after that sensory overload. Her pussy throbs, and her head is light, and her legs are weak, and Mercedes is wiping away a bit of spit at the edge of her mouth with a taunting smile on her face.

“Have I proven my innocence now, officer?” Mercedes’ voice is rough and raspy, and yanks Ingrid out of her trance.

“N-Not at all,” breathes Ingrid. “Far from it.”

She pulls Mercedes onto her lap and kisses her, and the older woman teases and toys with her tongue as Ingrid bunches her sweater. They part, just enough to pull it off, and then Mercedes is kissing her again, wet and demanding, and Ingrid can’t find the stupid fucking zipper on her skirt.

“Stumped by a skirt now, are we, Officer Galatea?” teases Mercedes. Ingrid can feel her face heating up as Mercedes slips out of her skirt and underwear.

Ingrid scrambles backwards as fast as she can towards her bedside table, leaning over the edge of her bed to reach a hand into the drawer for the lube. She’s distracted from her fumbling with Mercedes’ lips nibbling her ear and hand ghosting under her shirt. Every single part of her body is sensitive, and her teasing is enough to for her grip to slip on the bottle with a groan.

“What’s wrong?” hums Mercedes, and her hands have decided to press against her breasts through her shirt. Ingrid whimpers, but Mercedes only laughs. “Have you considered that maybe—” and she’s biting down on her neck, sucking and licking before releasing the fire-hot skin, “—the police force these days is just too easy to distract?”

Her hand closes on the bottle, and she twists back to sit up, catching Mercedes to keep her steady. She pulls the woman on her lap flush against her, and glares sternly at naughty blue eyes.

“Mercedes von Martritz. Behave yourself, or I’m not going to let you come.”

A sharp intake of breath, and Mercedes moans softly. She’s suddenly very compliant. Ingrid has never lubed up a strap so fast in her life.

Bracing herself on Ingrid’s shoulders, Mercedes shifts her hips above the strap, and Ingrid helps her ease herself onto the silicone. Mercedes moans once the tip is pushed in, and Ingrid holds her waist to steady her.

Her hips gyrate slowly as she eases down, down, up slowly, and then down, down, down again. Ingrid can only watch, open-mouthed and panting, as Mercedes arches, fair skin stretching and trembling, head thrown back, open-mouthed and panting.

She kisses her breasts once Mercedes takes it completely, kneading gently and softly. Mercedes’ hands come to her neck and shoulder, and she curls into her, warm breath flitting across her forehead.

Ingrid looks up, and notes trembling lips. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Mercedes nods. Ingrid kisses her, and then Mercedes pushes her back, gripping her shoulder with intent. “More than okay.”

Her hips curl upward, and then curt downward forcefully. A hand curls through her hair and grips it tightly as she moves, climbing and falling on Ingrid’s strap. Her breasts bounce with each movement, and the sound of wet flesh releasing and catching the strap fills the room.

Her hips are magical, thinks Ingrid, and when they slap against her then, the strap presses against her clit and her vision blurs.

Her gasps become breathy moans, and her pace quickens. Ingrid sinks her teeth into her shoulder, soft flesh pliant and needy under her lips, and Mercedes whimpers softly. She grips her waist and lifts and pulls along with the quick rhythm Mercedes has set for them, and Mercedes desperately yanks her head back for a kiss.

“Faster, harder,” she breathes against her lips. “Please, Ingrid, please.”

Ingrid releases from her, and braces on hand on the bed. Her grip on Mercedes’ waist is going to leave marks, she knows that, but she presses her feet into the sheets and shoots her hips upwards.

Mercedes lets out a strangled, warbling cry, throat trembling and body arching. The sound is beautiful and wanton, voice high and pitchy, and Ingrid forgets everything else except for wanting to hear it again.

So she thrusts again and again and again, and Mercedes is making those sounds again and again and again, consonants and words breaking apart. Mustering every bit of strength she can, she slams her hips upward, feeling the strap rub against her clit, but revelling in the effect it has in the woman on top of her.

“Ingrid, right there, yes, I’m so close—”

The gasps spur her on. Mercedes’ breasts are dancing with the thrusts, her grip on her hair tight and delicious, her lips parted and panting. Ingrid pushes inside fully, pausing for a moment to take a breath as she shudders, and then pulls out, only to ram their hips together again, and again, and again. Mercedes’ body is tensing, wound up like the string of an instrument, tighter and tighter, harder and harder, louder and louder.

It snaps, and Mercedes comes with a scream. Ingrid can only watch, moving along with the woman, as she throws her head back, throat shaking from pleasure, thighs quivering around her own, breasts thrown upwards as she curls back. Her screams fade out but her mouth remains open as Ingrid slows down, and softer gasps shakily slip out of swollen lips.

It’s absolutely stunning, and Ingrid’s head buzzes, soaring alongside Mercedes.

She curls back into Ingrid, resting their foreheads together, their pants mixing between them. Mercedes is flushed and gorgeous, and when she opens her eyes, they’re hazy. Their lips meet, anchoring them both.

Ingrid peppers kisses to her neck and shoulder, and waits until Mercedes catches herself.

“Ingrid,” she rasps. “Ingrid.” She obediently reaches for her lips again, and Mercedes moans weakly as she slips in her tongue. “Ingrid—”

“Again,” breathes Ingrid, gripping her hips. “I want to make you scream like that again.”

Blue eyes find green, and Ingrid loves the way they light up at the words.

“Again,” agrees Mercedes, and Ingrid wastes no more time talking.

-

Ingrid knows they’re done only when she finally slips out of her shirt.

Her clothes are damp with sweat, her thighs and core hurt, and she’s not looking forward to doing the laundry. But she collapses next to Mercedes, who is panting softly at the ceiling, skin still warm and sensitive.

Mercedes turns to rest her head on her shoulder, and Ingrid looks down at her dazed smile, running a hand through her short bob.

“You’re crazy,” mumbles the older woman.

“You make me crazy,” hums Ingrid. She traces her soft jawline. “You look so beautiful when you come.”

She laughs, warm breath curling over her shoulder blades. “You’re a sweet-talker, aren’t you?”

“I think you like it.” And Ingrid knows she does, admiring the blush on her cheeks.

A playful swat to her shoulder has Ingrid grinning alongside Mercedes.

“I could get lost in your body,” she mumbles against Mercedes’ temple, smile curling against sweaty skin. “I love praying at your altar.”

“Oh, stop it.” But she’s blushing down to her neck, and Ingrid thinks it’s cute.

“Mercedes, let me sweep you off your feet and take you to bed, I want to kiss every inch of your fair skin—”

“Enough, enough!” And Mercedes is squirming with laughter in her arms. Ingrid leans back, smiling, and accepts a soft kiss. “You silly goose.”

“I mean it, though,” she says, sincere.

“That makes it… more embarrassing.” Mercedes is actually avoiding eye-contact with her, and Ingrid smugly thinks of it as payback for all the times she got her riled up. She wants to push a little more, so she catches Mercedes’ chin and pulls her face forward.

When she sees the dancing flicker in her eyes however, Ingrid forgets about the game, and says instead, “I’m glad I have some time left with you.”

Mercedes’ eyes soften, and her hands come up to cup her cheeks. She’s pulled into a kiss, soft and slow and slight, flickering like a candle flame.

When they part, Mercedes is pink and glowing, and says, “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who have read, left kudos, or commented. it means a lot.


	5. (not so) Silent Night, (not so) Holy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s on night shift this entire week, which means a whole eight hours stuck in the precinct with nothing to do except man the phone lines and finish up paperwork on the weekdays and sort out bar brawls on the weekends.
> 
> “You’re going to get me fired,” breathes Ingrid into the speaker.
> 
> “Do you get to keep the uniform?” husks Mercedes.

“Ingrid, hurry—”

“Yes, Yes, I’m—Hang on—”

The bathroom stall hits the other wall with a clang, and Ingrid flicks it shut with her heel. One hand fumbling at the lock, and another fumbling with her belt. She knows she’s blushing because the phone pressed against her ear feels warmer than usual.

“You’re going to get me fired,” breathes Ingrid into the speaker.

“Do you get to keep the uniform?” husks Mercedes.

Ingrid laughs, breathlessly.

She’s on night shift this entire week, which means a whole eight hours stuck in the precinct with nothing to do except man the phone lines and finish up paperwork on the weekdays and sort out bar brawls on the weekends.

Mercedes had decided to switch up that equation by sending her a ridiculously sexy photo of herself again, which led to Ingrid attending a…personal phone call at work, and so now she’s fumbling with her pants in the tiny bathroom in the precinct.

“I’m using the strap on myself,” breathes Mercedes. It hits her ear as a sure of pleasure and static. “I wish you were here to fuck me into the mattress.”

Ingrid sits down on the closed toilet seat with a groan. They haven’t seen each other in nearly a week because of Mercedes’ work with the orphanage, and she’s so pent up. Mercedes had been touching herself in the photo, and wasn’t shy about showing Ingrid exactly how wet she had been.

When she slips a hand into her panties, Ingrid realises that the picture was pretty effective – she’s wet too. The sensation of her fingers dragging across her entrance makes her moan into the phone.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“I—Y-Yeah.”

Mercedes giggles. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that, Ingrid.”

“Oh, r-right.” Ingrid swallows. “Um…I’m wet,” she says, softly.

“Good,” says Mercedes, and Ingrid can hear her smile. She knows what kind it is too – the one she has when she’s hovering over her, about to pounce. The thought settles into the groin, and she drags her fingers along her slit again, moaning as her fingers catch the fluids.

“That picture, Mercie…oh, Goddess.”

“Did you like it? I was thinking of you wearing that uniform, taking me from behind.”

Ingrid whimpers as she circles her clit. Mercedes’ soft voice is caressing her ear and stimulating her clit without the woman actually being there, and it’s driving her wild.

“I d-did. I want…” Her voice trails off from embarrassment.

Mercedes breathes, “Go on, Ingrid…tell me. What would you do to me?”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath as she slips a finger into her aching entrance. The sensation is enough for her to gasp. “I’d…I’d hold you down. With your wrists.”

A moan from the other end of the line tells her she’s on the right track, and so she goes on, pumping her finger slowly.

“I want to hear you scream. I want to grab your hair and pull you up so that I can hear you.”

Maybe it’s the debauchery of the situation, being at work and on duty and still calling a girl and touching herself in the washroom, or maybe it’s the way Mercedes moans, “Yes, that’s…that’s good. You’re doing so well.”

Either way, her walls clench around her finger for a moment, and releases with a gush of fluid.

“Oh, Ingrid,” her name comes through as a breathy moan. “Will you add another finger?” She does so obediently, and moans at the stretch. “Good…now thrust faster, and curl your fingers in that way you like.”

Ingrid’s breaths are coming out as raspy, shorts gasps as her fingers twist inside, and when they touch rugged skin, and moans a little louder than before. She repeats the motion, fingers stroking and thrusting, and the pleasure begins to build in her stomach.

“I’m—ah! I-I’m going faster too… I love it when you use the strap on me, because you—oh!” Mercedes cuts herself off with a moan. “You move so fast, and you’re rough.”

Ingrid can feel her face heating up, and she whispers, “You take it. I love how you take it.” She thinks of the way Mercedes’ body tightens and quivers, pink and wanting, sweaty and shapely, as she fucks herself.

“Faster, faster.” Mercedes sounds close, her words sharp and tight with desire.

The wet sound of her fingers slipping in and out of her cunt fills the still air, mixed with soft moans and breathy gasps. Through her phone, she can hear Mercedes breathing moans and gasping cries to her, mixing in delicious comments on how good she is.

Ingrid stretches out her thumb to catch her clit, and when rough skin touches the sensitive nub, she cries out. It echoes, and she bites down on her lip, catching herself.

“I’m close,” whimpers Mercedes.

“M-Me, too.”

“Come with me. Come with me.”

She works herself until the pleasure build and builds, and then washes over her, starting from her cunt and washing through her limbs and her chest. She cries out, and hears a drawn-out moan from Mercedes. She wants to swallow those sounds, and feel Mercedes’ hot breath mix with her own.

The wave recedes until little sparks tickle her clit and toes. The cacophony has died down around her, and she collects herself slowly. The light is sharp and bright, and mixes in with the sound of Mercedes breathing heavily.

Ingrid swallows against the dryness in her throat, and rasps, “Good?”

“Very good,” murmurs Mercedes, and Ingrid can picture her lying against the pillows, shut eyes, dazed smile, flushed cheeks. Her clit tiredly throbs at the thought.

Ingrid leans back, closing her eyes, and thinks it was worth the risk, after all. She’s still holding the phone to her ear, still hearing Mercedes catch her breath. The emotions are settling down now, and the rushing in her ears is replaced with the echoes of water dripping from a leaking tap.

“I hope I made your night a little more fun, officer?”

“Y-Yeah, you did.” She can’t go for round two just yet, no matter what how many ‘officer’s Mercedes coos to her. “Uh, thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, silly,” giggles Mercedes. “I got something out of that, too, you know.”

“Ah, yes.” Ingrid doesn’t know what to say, suddenly feeling a little out of her depth. They’re usually together in person, and she realises only now how comforting Mercedes’ presence is.

“When does your shift get over?”

Ingrid blinks her eyes open at the sudden question. “Around six, but it gets extended. Maybe till seven.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. Would you do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind calling me then to wake me up?”

Ingrid wonders what happened to her alarm. Then she remembers that Mercedes likes to sleep in. “Can I ask why?”

“Of course. The chapel has been getting a little dusty, and I thought I could head down before the morning mass to clean it up. But you know how terrible I am at waking up early. I just keep pressing snooze on the alarm, and the next thing I know, it’s nine am.”

Ingrid smiles. “I know. Make sure you wake up, copy that.”

“Thank you, officer,” coos Mercedes with a giggle.

Maybe she could go for a round two, if Mercedes keeps that up.

-

It’s seven-fifteen when she walks back into her apartment, and it doesn’t take much for her to collapse onto the bed. The sheets are cool and comforting around her, and she really wants to sleep.

Ingrid calls Mercedes instead. She’s rewarded with a sleepy, “Hullo?” that has her smiling.

“Good morning.”

“Mm. Good morning.”

Ingrid knows Mercedes likes to snooze a little in the mornings, so she’s never got a chance to hear this slow, sleep-husked side to her. She is familiar with her fiery smirks in the nights and sweet smiles in the mornings, so Ingrid hums in response, unsure on what to say. There’s some shuffling in the other end of the line, and a groan and a sigh that she thinks might be Mercedes stretching.

“Uh, I think Ashe has someone home,” she says lamely.

“Oh?” Ingrid can hear the lilt in Mercedes’ voice as she slips out of bed. “What makes you think that?”

“There’s a pair of blue size 5 heels at the door. I don’t own anything like that.”

“Annie does.”

“Oh, does she?”

It takes her a moment.

“Ohh.”

“Yes.” The sleep-dipped hoarseness of her voice has lifted, and the familiar light airiness has returned. “Oh, I’ve been trying to get her to admit it to me for ages now. You tell me everything you hear and see, okay?”

“I’m not sure if I want to see or hear anything.”

“Knowing Annie, you might not have a choice.” Ingrid sighs, and is rewarded with a little tinkle of laughter through the speaker. “You must be tired. Go rest, I’ll speak to you in the evening.”

“Have a nice day today, Mercie.”

“Copy that.” Mercedes giggles, and Ingrid can feel her cheeks stretching from her own smile. “Good night, Ingrid.”

-

Night shifts, while important, did have the nasty side-effect of making it difficult to walk about in the afternoon sun without feeling like you were in a fever dream. Ingrid keeps all the curtains closed when she comes back, because she’s not ready for the sun yet.

“Oh, I know the feeling,” sighs Mercedes over the phone. “The next few hours don’t feel very real, do they?”

“But you would do 24-hour shifts at the hospital, right?” says Ingrid, rummaging about in her kitchen. “Those are worse. I don’t know how you did them.”

“I used to hide cookies in my bag for a pick-me-up,” says Mercedes, whispering conspiratorially.

Ingrid laughs. “Your secret is safe with me. What are your plans for the day?”

“I wanted to get to the farmer’s market early to get some fresh strawberries and rhubarb. I’m making a pie today.”

“Oh, yum. That sound delicious,” says Ingrid, dropping a teabag into a mug of hot water. “Is it just for fun, or…?”

“You know Mrs Zeigler from church, right?” Ingrid hums in agreement. “Well, she called me down to the senior citizen’s home to take a knitting class last week, and I thought I’d make a pie this week. Just to make it special!”

The image of Mercedes and a bunch of old ladies huddled over needles and string at the home makes Ingrid smile. “Sounds fun.”

“Are you laughing at me, now?”

“No, no. I was just thinking that you’d fit right in,” laughs Ingrid, settling into her sheets and cradling her mug. “Gossiping and sewing with the old ladies from church.”

“I’ll have you know that we are very focused on our _knitting_.”

“Ah yes, knitting. My apologies.” Ingrid bites her lip to hold back her smile.

-

This goes on for the rest of the week. Ingrid will call Mercedes before she goes to sleep, and they talk until the roughness in Mercedes’ voice lightens, and then some more.

“Am I troubling you?” Mercedes asks on Friday. “With all the calls in the morning? I know you must be tired.”

“Not at all. It’s nice to hear this side of you.”

“All sleepy and tired? You like that?”

It’s Mercedes before she decides she’s going to clean up the chapel, or take a class for the children in the orphanage, or cook some food for the homeless people in the area, or whatever other helpful thing that she deems hers to be done for the day.

“It’s the sexy, just-woke-up voice,” Ingrid says instead.

“You’re so silly.” She can hear rummaging in the background. “Well, if you like it that much, I’ll see what I can do when I see you next.” Her voice dips into a suggestive caress.

Ingrid clears her throat, and is rewarded with a giggle.

“Sweet dreams now, officer.”

Ingrid sighs and shakes her head, smiling. Mercedes has all of her buttons on full display, and loves pushing them just for a reaction.

“Well, you’ll be in them, so they will be.”

“Oh, you! I’m hanging up now, before you get started.”

Luckily, Ingrid knows how to get back at her.

-

It’s Sunday, and she’s finally done with the shift. It’ll take her two days to fix her sleep cycle, if she’s good about it. She should head downstairs to the apartment, get a plate of whatever Ashe has made for his colleagues at the flower shop, say hi to Dedue and Bernie, and then go to bed.

Instead, she’s on the apartment’s rooftop terrace with an armful of pillows, arranging a bunch of blankets neatly for a make-shift bed, and Mercedes is five minutes away. Ingrid stops fiddling with the sheets, and sighs.

“I’m becoming Sylvain.”

A few minutes later, she hears the click of the terrace door, and Mercedes makes her appearance, a little package in hand. Ingrid smiles at her from her spot on the blankets as she looks around.

“This is nice,” she says, walking towards Ingrid.

“It better be, for the rent,” mumbles Ingrid. Mercedes laughs, and Ingrid pats the spot on the blanket next to her. She lowers herself onto the sheets, and then leans over.

Ingrid closes her eyes and smiles into the kiss. She’s missed this.

Mercedes pushes her away slightly. “Ah, before I forget—” She holds out the box. “—for you.”

“What is it?” says Ingrid, taking the box.

“I made apple and rhubarb tarts with leftover ingredients.”

Ingrid quickly opens the box and takes a bite out of one. The pastry is tart and sweet and crumbly all at once, and Mercedes laughs as she shoots her a tart-filled smile.

“Thanks,” she says before taking another bite. Mercedes hums, and then watches her for a bit before letting her gaze stray across the terrace.

“Do you come up here often?”

“Mm, som’imes.”

Mercedes turns to her and shoots her a coy smile. “And do you always come with a girl?”

Ingrid swallows down the last of the tart. “Not really.”

“Would that make me your first?” Mercedes’ eyes are twinkling, and she leans over.

Ingrid subconsciously reaches for another tart, and says, “Well, yeah. I like to look at the stars alone. Uh—” Mercedes takes the box from her hands and put it away from her with a little giggle. Ingrid shakes her head, smiling as she realises her mistake.

“It’s quite romantic,” Mercedes says, and cups her face, bringing her in for a kiss. It’s slow and gentle, and Mercedes’ tongue tickles the bottom of her lip. She opens her mouth obediently, and her tongue slips into her mouth, caressing her own.

There’s no rush, no hurry, so Ingrid lets herself go along with the kiss, as slow as it is. When they part, Mercedes licks her lips and says teasingly, “Sweet.”

Ingrid sighs, smiling, and pulls her in by the waist for another kiss. Mercedes cups her cheeks and smiles against her lips, opening her mouth and letting Ingrid take charge. She pulls away to press a kiss to Mercedes’ jaw, and then peppers kisses along the length of her slender neck.

There’s a spot just behind her ear that she likes, so Ingrid moves up to press her lips against the soft skin. Mercedes sighs above her, holding her head in place. Grazing her teeth against her earlobe, Ingrid is rewarded with a soft hum.

Their lips meet again. It’s not rushed or desperate – she’s just enjoying the way their bodies feel together. One hand bracing against the sheets, the other traces patterns on Mercedes’ full waist.

When their lips part to allow Ingrid to kiss her neck again, Mercedes hums, a little breathlessly, “I never put you as the stargazing type.”

Ingrid pulls back, startled by the sudden comment. “Oh. Well, I…like it. It’s relaxing to come up here and just look at them.”

“Really?” Mercedes traces her jaw. “Can you see any constellations? With the city light, and all.”

Ingrid nervously toys with the fabric at Mercedes’ waist for a moment before answering. “I don’t know anything about constellations, actually. I just…look at the stars, and think about things. The last time I came here, it was Glenn’s birthday.”

“Glenn?”

“Oh, um…”

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I was just—”

“It’s no problem,” says Ingrid. “It’s a heavy topic, though.”

“Well, we have all night, and I can’t keep any of the promises I made you over the phone out on the roof.” Mercedes smiles teasingly.

Ingrid chuckles, shaking her head. “Alright.”

Where would she begin?

“Glenn was Felix’s older brother. We – that is, Dimitri, Felix, Sylvain and I – were all really close to him.”

Mercedes hums. Her look has gone back to that openness, but rather than feeling unsettled, Ingrid knows that she’s just waiting for her, and will take whatever she gives.

“I used to have the biggest crush on him,” smiles Ingrid.

“You did?” says Mercedes, smiling fondly.

“Yeah. It was embarrassing, when I think about it now. I used to follow him everywhere, and when he called me pretty, I’d think about it for days and get so…happy.” Ingrid drops her head, chuckling. “It was so stupid, and Sylvain used to tease me all the time about it.”

“No, it’s sweet,” says Mercedes, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. “I would have loved to see what little Ingrid was like.”

Ingrid snorts. “Oh, there are pictures. Remember the skirts? I had a lot of them, and they all got dirty because we would be rolling around in the mud all day.” Mercedes giggles at that, and so she continues. “I really wanted to be like him, too. He was really brave and level-headed. He knew he wanted to be a police officer to help people and protect them.”

The jubilance in his grin when he passed the exam, and the delicious spread they had at Felix’s house that night felt like they had happened just a few days ago. But so is the memory of her father getting the call from Sylvain’s father, and the warmth of the tears running down her face when Father explained what had happened.

“Hey,” Mercedes tilts her face upward. “We can drop it, if you’d like.”

“Ah, sorry,” mumbles Ingrid. “It’s not all sad, you know. I became a cop because of him. I wanted to make him proud, because I wanted to help people out and keep them safe, too. I trained really hard with the boys, and we all cleared the exam. I remember coming up here then, and telling him that I had done it.”

Mercedes brushes her thumb across her cheeks gently. “I’m sure he’s proud of you.”

Ingrid nods, and looks away with a sigh.

She’s still waiting, and will take an out if Ingrid wants that. She’s done it before, and Ingrid knows she can ask her again.

“It’s just… I help all these people – and I love it, don’t get me wrong. I want to do this forever. But, for all that, I…”

There’s a silence as her voice trails off. Mercedes breaks it by saying, “It’s easy to solve problems when they’re not your own, isn’t it?”

Ingrid’s head snaps up, and she sees a familiar sad smile on the woman’s face.

“Yeah,” she says, because she’s not sure if she can say more.

Mercedes sighs, still smiling, and brushes back a lock of Ingrid’s hair. It slips and falls back in front again. Ingrid waits, because it’s the least she can do.

“Oh, this is all some serious stuff indeed,” huffs Mercedes.

“Like you said, we have the whole night,” says Ingrid.

Mercedes smiles at her then, and it takes her a moment to gather her thoughts.

“I told the people at the drive at church last month about how they could help people with substance abuse issues, and how they need to be there for and support them as much as they can,” she says. “It was easy telling them what to do, but when my little brother started doing drugs, I…I wasn’t there for him.”

Mercedes looks away, almost over her shoulder, and chuckles weakly at nothing. “The divorce was tough, but we were happy to leave my birth father. I didn’t realise how much the abuse had hurt him only until it was too late, and he had already been arrested.”

Ingrid catches her gaze when she turns back, and sees tears. “I tried to make it up by helping everyone around me, but that’s not going to take away the fact that I wasn’t there for Emile when he needed me the most,” she says, sniffing. “And helping others, while lovely on its own, isn’t going to fight my battles.”

Ingrid squeezes her hand, and says, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. There’s still things you can do. Maybe you could still reach out to your brother, and let him know how you feel. I’m sure there are groups out there to help families of abuse victims, too.”

Mercedes looks up, smiling and trying to blink back her tears. Sniffing, she laughs, “Always looking at the solution, aren’t you?”

Ingrid blinks, and hurriedly says, “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No, no, no.” Mercedes waves her hands, and laughs weakly. “I meant it as a good thing. I always get caught up in the details. It’s nice to have someone listen to my complaining.”

Ingrid relaxes. “Of course I’ll listen, Mercie.”

Mercedes drops her head to wipe away at her cheek, and Ingrid reaches out a hand to help. Her cheek is soft under her thumb.

Mercedes catches her eyes and shoots her a watery smile. “Well, if it counts for anything, I think you’re doing a great job so far.”

Ingrid knows she isn’t. “I would say the same thing to you,” she says, and she means it.

Mercedes is still smiling sadly when she says, “Now I suppose we just need to believe it ourselves.”

Ingrid swallows, and pulls her into a hug. Mercedes tucks her head into her neck and grips her back. Ingrid runs her hands across Mercedes’ shoulders to try to steady her.

“Can we stay like this for some time?” whispers Mercedes into her neck. Ingrid nods.

The stars shine over them like that for a long time.


	6. How Sweet Is Your Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s like…baking, in a way. We need to wait for the dough to rise twice, for an hour each, to make the pastry taste good. Gluten can be stubborn and uncooperative if it doesn’t get what it wants, and you need to entertain it a little, before you bake it.”
> 
> “It has to rise twice?” blurts Ingrid. When is she going to get a taste of the cinnamon buns?
> 
> Mercedes laughs, delighted. “Yes, you goose. Two whole times.”

The bedroom door opens, and Dorothea's hiding behind it, clad in a towel with wet hair spilling over her shoulders. Her room is clean as usual, but when Ingrid spots the four dresses piled on her bed, she knows she's in for a long night.

"Okay, so," says Dorothea, shutting the door and excitedly prancing towards the bed. Ingrid seats herself on the chair by the table with a sigh. "You need to help me figure out what to wear."

"Dorothea, we've been over this. Ask Bernie or Annette. I can't help you with this stuff."

"I've already asked them. I just wanted one more opinion. C'mon Ingrid, please?"

Ingrid sighs. "Fine. The purple one is out."

Dorothea pouts. "What? Why?"

"That many frills in the club is a recipe for disaster. It's going to catch on something and unravel in the middle of the dancefloor."

"Maybe I want to be unravelled," says Dorothea with a wink. Catching Ingrid's unamused expression, she says, "Okay, okay, fine. Let me try these on and then you tell me what you think."

Ingrid turns away when Dorothea drops the towel. She knows this game. Dorothea has already made a decision in her head, and she wants Ingrid to agree with her. She's a little nervous because fashion to her is a shirt and pants, but Dorothea is Dorothea, and it would be apparent on her face which one she likes. That's helpful, because all Ingrid sees is red dress, black dress, and darker black dress.

"My Ingrid, you've seen me naked. And a lot more, might I remind you."

"You have a boyfriend. It's not proper. Did you forget?"

"Oh, right, him."

Ingrid presses two fingers to her brow in exasperation. "Is he joining us today?"

"No, it's girl's night. Okay, turn around."

Ingrid turns to see Dorothea wearing the darker black dress that she liked. She thinks it's great – it's sparkly and compliments her figure. But Dorothea's expression is what's going to give her the clues, and her face is neutral.

"It's nice. But I think you can do better."

Dorothea blows her a kiss. "That's my girl. Okay, let's try the other one–"

Ingrid turns around again.

"–but, speaking of. Your girlfriend gave me a call."

Ingird sighs. "Dorothea, she's not my girlfriend."

There's some shuffling coming from behind her. "Oh yeah, the girl you've been ditching your best friends for is just a fuck-buddy."

"I didn't mean to ditch you, I was just...busy."

"Busy with Mercie."

Ingrid doesn't acknowledge her correct assumption. She has been spending a lot more time with Mercedes, of late. "It’s nothing like that."

"I'm going to smack you with my big purse. The one with all the tassels and chains. Maybe then you'll stop being a dumbass."

Ingrid remembers the last time Dorothea did that, and winces at the memory. That purse was heavy for being so small, and all the sharp accessories had hurt. "Please don't hit me with your purse."

"I won't, not yet at least. But you're still a dumbass. Turn."

The black dress is nice, and it hugs Dorothea's figure nicely, but Ingrid doesn't like it. It's got a little hole in the chest to show off cleavage, and only one shoulder strap. It's a lot. Dorothea doesn't like it either, judging her unsatisfied expression.

"Um, it's lovely, but–"

"–you hate it, and so do I. Ugh," groans Dorothea, wiggling out of the dress. Ingrid turns away just in time.

"Why are you so worried about the dress?"

"I just want to look good." At Ingrid's silent disapproval, she adds on softly, "Petra's coming."

"Oh?" There had been some developments recently that had 'complicated things', according to Dorothea. Ingrid knows that the only one complicating things is the brunette in her head. "But what about what's-his-name. Your boyfriend?"

"All of that's not important," says Dorothea, in a rush. Ingrid sighs, and realises that she's signed up for a very long night. "And don't try to change the subject, my Ingrid."

"I'm not the one changing the subject," she mutters.

"Aren't you a little curious about what we talked about?"

"What did you talk to Mercedes about, Dorothea," asks Ingrid flatly.

"Haha, very funny. Turn around."

The red sleeveless dress has a turtleneck-collar type situation, and when Dorothea twirls, Ingrid can see that it has a huge hole in the back to show off her back. Ingrid likes it a lot. However, it's Dorothea's wide grin that seals the deal.

"You look perfect. This is the one," says Ingrid, fondly.

"Thank you," says Dorothea, preening. Ingrid rolls her eyes playfully. "Annie said the same thing. Who also, by the way, gave Mercie my number."

Ingrid leans back in the chair and crosses her arms as Dorothea settles into her vanity and begins the laborious process of make-up and hair.

"Did you know that she's taken over the orphanage from Crusty?"

"Yeah." Mercedes had been jubilant that night, and had had very particular ideas on how to celebrate. Ingrid smiles at the memory.

A stick of something hit her head. "You're disgusting." Ingrid throws it back, and Dorothea fumbles the catch. Amid the laughter, Dorothea begins dabbing something on her face with a sponge. "Anyway, she called because she figured out what he was upto."

Dorothea's rocky relationship with the orphanage aside, it was a known secret that there was something fishy going on behind-the-scenes at the place. There were strange donations and an even stranger 'application' system that wasn't quite traceable, topped off by a pastor who had connections in the right places to get away with it. Ingrid remembers speaking to Gilbert about it, and the way the man had brushed it under a heavily-religious carpet.

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No, she was pretty vague about things. But you know what's funny?" says Dorothea, turning and waggling a wand at her. "She asked me why my application was rejected and about my family, stuff like that. She told me she was sorry I had to go through what I did."

"Oh."

"Do you think she'll actually do something about it?"

When picking up Mercedes from the chapel after her shift, the older woman's eyes had sparkled as the children had hugged her goodbye. Her smile had been fond and sweet when, that night wrapped up under the blankets, she said she wanted to give them a happy and safe space to be children again. Ingrid had recommended some of her favourite childhood stories to read to them, and Mercedes had laughed.

"Yeah, I think so."

Dorothea regards her through the mirror. "Really?"

Ingrid nods. "She wants to help as many people as she can. I don't think she'd let anything stop her in that. But I don't know how she's going to do it."

Dorothea snorts. "Not with that bastard in the picture."

"Please tell me you didn't tell her that."

"I didn't. I wanted to, but I didn't."

"Good."

Dorothea makes a noise of assent, puckering her lips to brush pink on her cheeks. She shuts the compact with a sharp click, and looks at Ingrid with a twinkle in her eyes. "We did chat about other things and _other people_ , you know."

Ingrid ignores the anxious flutter in her chest, and rolls her eyes with a sigh.

"Oh, don't give me that–" Dorothea imitates her eye-roll and sigh exaggeratedly, "–bullshit. You wanna know!"

"Okay, fine. I do want to know because last time, you told her the rabid dog story."

Dorothea cackles. "Love that one."

Ingrid scowls at her reflection in the mirror, only making the brunette laugh harder.

"She told me how you've been taking her around town, and how 'lovely' it all was. I'm a little offended, my Ingrid. You never took me to any haunted houses."

Ingrid keeps her face neutral through Dorothea's teasing. "You would have complained the whole time. And she's new. It's the least I can do."

"Mm. Thank the goddess she didn't tell me the most."

"Oh, fuck off."

Dorothea laughs wickedly, but quickly sobers down. It's time for the precise and serious art of eye make-up, and so Ingrid excuses herself to go downstairs and grab a plate that Manuela's saved for her. The woman's an incredible cook, and Ingrid demolishes the food in short notice. She's scrounging around the kitchen for more when Dorothea calls for her from the living room.

"Ready to go?" she says, messing with her hair in a mirror next to the door. "The car's waiting outside."

"One thing," says Ingrid, and Dorothea turns to look at her. She's not good with words, but Dorothea understands. "You look beautiful tonight. Yes, I know that you know. But you're also an amazing person and friend. You are kind and generous and caring, and that's why people stick around and want to be closer to you. People like Petra."

Dorothea nods quietly.

"Also. Break up with your boyfriend."

Breaking into a laugh, Dorothea smacks her lightly. "Ingrid!"

"What? You don't care about him anyway."

Dorothea kisses her cheek. Ingrid wipes off the lipstick mark with a fond sigh, and follows her out of the door.

-

The air is sweet with cinnamon, flour dusting every counter and the edge of Mercedes’ apron. A scattering of tins, bowls and measuring cups decorates the counter, and Ingrid leans on it carefully so as to not disturb the careful chaos.

Watching Mercedes bake is a treat, pun not intended. Usually a little clumsy and air-headed, the woman becomes all business when there are sugars to be measured and doughs to be knead. Her hands, usually soft and plump and gentle, become stern and firm as she presses and pulls and schools unruly dough into an obedient ball. There’s a smudge of flour on her chin, and she’s biting her lip.

She looks up from her ministrations, and a knowing smile spreads across her face.

Caught, Ingrid says, “Do you want any help?”

“That would be lovely,” says Mercedes, and shows her how to make the filling and the icing.

As Mercedes disappears to let the dough rest in the oven, Ingrid carefully levels the mountain of sugar in the measuring cup, and sighs when she realises the cinnamon container won’t open up, forcing her to shake it out.

“Sorry,” giggles Mercedes, slipping her arms around her.

Ingrid smiles and shakes her head. “It’s no problem. Let me know if I’m doing something wrong.”

Mercedes hums into her hair, and presses a kiss to the spot. “The kids are going to love the fact that Officer Galatea helped make these,” she giggles.

“Please don’t tell them that. I have an image to uphold,” sighs Ingrid, and begins mixing. The swirl of the granules is oddly comforting.

“Oh? What image?” teases Mercedes. “You lot rolled around in the dirt for hours the other day.”

“We were playing football,” clarified Ingrid. “It’s a messy sport.”

Mercedes laughs, a warm burst of air by her ear. “Sure, sure.” Ingrid can do nothing but laugh with her.

“How are they?” she asks, setting aside the bowl. Mercedes’ grip is dislodged as she reaches for the icing ingredients, but Ingrid catches her hand to hold them in place.

“They’re doing well,” says Mercedes, the fondness in her voice unmistakable. “Roger and Jules got into another fight over who gets to read the evening prayer.”

Ingrid settles back into Mercedes’ arms with an amused huff. Those two were feisty – Roger had clear eyes and but a not-so-clear head, and Jules was tiny but full of words and thoughts and opinions that had to be shared. Ingrid remembers wondering how a twelve-year-old knew so much about the workings of the police force.

“Did Roger cry again?”

“Oh, no. Jules stopped just as his eyes got watery, and let him read it. She was grumpy the whole time, though.” Ingrid finds herself smiling. The cream cheese plops into the bowl with a wet thud. Was it supposed to be so thick? “Oh, don’t get started on that just yet. Let it soften a bit.”

Ingrid takes that as a chance to turn around, and is met with Mercedes’ soft smile. “They’re good kids.”

“They are,” smiles Mercedes.

“They have a wonderful guardian,” says Ingrid, liking the pleased blush rising on the taller woman’s face.

“You’ll get a roll without the flattery, you know,” huffs Mercedes, but pulls Ingrid for a kiss nevertheless.

When they part, Ingrid thumbs away the flour on her chin. “You’re making a mess, Miss Mercie.”

“Oh, please don’t,” says Mercedes, swatting her shoulder. “I can hear the children calling me that even when I’m sleeping.”

Ingrid laughs at that, and pulls her back into a kiss. Her lips are soft and plump against hers, the slow movement familiar for her to match. Baking is a long-drawn process, and so Mercedes opens her mouth when Ingrid nibbles her lower lip, tongue teasing and tickling out a pleased hum. The afternoon is warm and pink when she’s kissing Mercedes, the air filled with cinnamon sugar.

When they part, Ingrid still cradles her cheek softly. Mercedes is kind and gentle and full of giggles, and Ingrid wonders how she can be all of those things, despite the hand that was dealt to her. Something anxious flits through her mind when she thinks of the orphanage and Mercedes and the children.

“What is it?” hums Mercedes, always perceptive.

“Ah.” Ingrid doesn’t know what it is exactly, so she settles for the facts. “Dorothea told me you spoke to her.”

“Oh.” Mercedes shifts for a moment, an uncertain look on her face.

“You don’t have to tell me, obviously. I just want to say… I’m here to help, if you need it.”

There’s a fragile smile on her face when she says, “As Officer Galatea or just Ingrid?”

Ingrid snorts out a laugh. “I’m not sure which one you like more, honestly.” That does it, and Mercedes bows her head with laughter. When Mercedes meets her eye again, blue eyes twinkling, Ingrid says, softer, “Whichever one you’d like.”

Mercedes plays with her collar for a second, and says, “Just Ingrid is fine.” A beat, where Mercedes’ smile turns nervous. “I…Would you mind if I ranted, for just a bit?”

Ingrid’s eyes go wide, but there’s something fragile to the way Mercedes looks at her, so she says, “Consider me ready and willing.”

A laugh, and Ingrid is glad for it. She waits as Mercedes mulls over the words, full mouth twisting as she does.

“It’s terrible, what he’s done,” she admits. “I can’t imagine the pain Dorothea and all the other children went through. I can’t let it go on any longer.”

Ingrid is glad to hear that her predictions were correct. But she knows what the problem is – or rather, who.

Mercedes sighs. She’s not smiling anymore. “He knows I don’t approve of the application system, or the donations from distant, rich family members. But those things are important to him, and I can’t just change things overnight.”

Ingrid frowns. Mercedes is in-charge of the orphanage. She can, technically, do just that.

“Oh, you,” laughs Mercedes, and Ingrid blinks. “You’re thinking that I could just do that, right?”

“Well…um…”

“You’re right, in a way. I could. But it wouldn’t work on my father. He’s a very stubborn man.” Mercedes sighs. “He’s an opportunistic man, and this is just an opportunity to him. If I go in and try to change things right away, he would as easily remove me from the position he gave me as he appointed me.”

Ingrid waits, and Mercedes hums a little, thinking.

“It’s like…baking, in a way. We need to wait for the dough to rise twice, for an hour each, to make the pastry taste good. Gluten can be stubborn and uncooperative if it doesn’t get what it wants, and you need to entertain it a little, before you bake it.”

“It has to rise twice?” blurts Ingrid. When is she going to get a taste of Mercedes’ legendary cinnamon buns?

Mercedes laughs, delighted. “Yes, you goose. Two whole times.” Ingrid sighs, and it earns her another laugh.

“But what does that have to do with your father?”

“I can’t bring about the changes I want immediately. I need to be patient with him, and dance to his horrible tunes for a little while, before I can change things, slowly.”

Ingrid nods, understanding, and says, “A covert operation.”

“Oh, _that’s_ the metaphor I should have used for you?” Mercedes giggles at her eye-roll. “But yes, exactly that. I start with little changes here and there, and then the big changes. I was thinking of opening up the orphanage a little, to a few street children, at first. And then taking things from there.”

Ingrid thinks the idea makes sense, theoretically. But she knows Crusty, having suffered through the man coming home for dinners at her father’s invitation. Mercedes tilts her head, seeing right through her, so she says, “Will your father really let you, though?”

A tired smile spreads across her face, and Mercedes says, “I can only have faith that he will.”

Ingrid sees the defeated look on her face, and something bubbles angrily in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll help you out, if you want. However you want. I can rope in the boys too. And Edelgard’s law firm is really good, and she’d help you pro bono if—”

“Easy, easy!” laughs Mercedes, cupping her cheeks. Ingrid stops, and Mercedes pulls her in for a gentle kiss. When they part, she runs a soothing thumb across her cheek, and says, “Thank you. That means a lot to me, but I don’t want to go so far yet. Let me appeal to him, first.”

Her head drops to Ingrid’s shoulder. Ingrid swallows against the sudden lump in her throat, blinks against the sudden thudding in her chest. Hesitantly, she places her hand on her shoulder.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” breathes Mercedes. “It’s just…I know. I know what kind of person he is. Whatever can be used, will be used, until he gets what he wants. It’s the case with the orphanage, with the funds to the church…and with me.”

She stops talking abruptly, and Ingrid is glad she did, because the rush of blood in her ears erupts in a crescendo. Her throat and chest are tight, wound up in fear and anger and sorrow, because it sounds too similar, too close.

Mercedes looks up, sees the panic in her eyes, and says, “Ingrid?”

It’s resilient and it’s passionate and it yearns, and Ingrid was supposed to have killed the traitorous feeling in her chest a long time back. Desperately, she thinks of her family’s business, she thinks of her father’s comments about eligible men, she thinks of her mother’s hopeful smile in Church the other day. The rebellion was supposed to be quelled, but that’s not the case.

A gentle brush against her cheek snaps her out of it. “Ingrid, are you alright?”

“Yes,” she rasps. Mercedes’ blue eyes are wide with concern, but Ingrid ignores it, holding her delicate hands tightly. “That’s not right,” she tries.

She fails, mouthing words that don’t form in her mind to carry. But Mercedes knows her, and is patiently waiting, so she tries again.

“You aren’t something to be used to further someone else’s desires. You deserve to fulfil your dreams, and live your life – all of it, not just the time that’s been given by our fathers – and…and be happy. You’re not their puppet, or their tool, or a…a walking key to a bank. You’re more than that.”

The words fizzle out, her intensity replaced with sorrow, and Mercedes sees her, like she does.

“We aren’t tools to be used,” she says, quietly.

-

The children had accepted the treats with glee, leaping and jumping around Mercedes as she had distributed the rolls with a smile. Ingrid had received a roll with a kiss that had all the children screaming in disgust and delight.

She’s thinking of the smooth icing and the melt of buttery bread when Mercedes walks into the room, and laughs at her dreamy expression.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“Your buns,” responds Ingrid, without thinking. Mercedes explodes into a laugh, and Ingrid splutters, “I-I meant the cinnamon buns! Not-!”

“You can think about those, too,” giggles Mercedes, sitting down next to her.

Ingrid sighs, but Mercedes is cupping her face and kissing her, sweet as sugar. When they part, Mercedes regards her with warm eyes, soft fingers tracing her jaw. Ingrid can’t help but smile back.

“You’re silly,” says Ingrid.

“You threw a tantrum because you had to wait for dough to rise,” counters Mercedes.

“It doesn’t make sense,” insists Ingrid, ignoring her giggle. “And it only delays the process.”

“The process of you eating my buns?” hums Mercedes, biting back a smile.

Ingrid looks at her, unamused. Mercedes leans in for another kiss, but Ingrid tilts her head away, stubborn. A little huff, and Mercedes pouts at her, but Ingrid doesn’t relent. The older woman tries to hold her in pace when she leans forward, but Ingrid catches her hands and holds them away, leaning back further.

Their eyes meet, and Ingrid knows she’s smiling too much to be taken seriously. It doesn’t matter, because Mercedes has a determined glint in her eye, and hoists herself onto Ingrid’s lap. On instinct, she lets go of her wrists to hold her steady by the waist, and Mercedes uses the opportunity to pull her closer for a kiss.

Her lips taste of icing, so Ingrid doesn’t bother putting up much of a fight. She runs her tongue along the soft plush of her lips, picking up tinges of sugar and cream and cinnamon, and when her mouth parts, Ingrid slips in her tongue to taste molten, spiced butter and Mercedes all at once.

Mercedes pulls back, staying close enough so that their breaths can mingle into a warm, saccharine air, and Ingrid is smiling so much it hurts. She feels light and airy, melting like a macaroon left unattended on the tongue.

"The kids were really happy to see you," says Mercedes, toying with a strand of her hair. "I know you only visit once a week because of work, but it means a lot to them. It means a lot to me."

"I'm glad to be of service," says Ingrid. "To both."

"I appreciate the service, officer."

"You need to pick one, Ingrid or officer," sighs Ingrid. "I'm getting whiplash."

Mercedes giggles, and says, "Just you is perfect."

They kiss again, and this time Ingrid drops her lips to taste the creamy length of her neck, licking along the shell of her ear and suckling her pulse point, picking up the sweet taste of her skin. The hum of assent from above encourages her to reach for the buttons on Mercedes blouse, and she slides it all off like a chocolate wrapper, to reveal the cocoa-tipped nipples of her creamy breasts.

Ingrid takes one into her mouth, licking and biting to taste. Her hand skates up to knead at the plush flesh of her doughy breasts, marvelling at the sweetness of her skin and sighs. Her tongue, spoiled from icing and sugar, licks a path up from the middle of her breasts to her neck, and she sucks to make Mercedes gasp.

As delicate as spun sugar and just as light, Mercedes coaxes her head up until their lips meet again. When they part, Mercedes runs her tongue across her lips, and Ingrid can understand her hunger.

"Maybe I do want to taste you," admits Ingrid. She joins in with Mercedes' laughter, and they shift back until Mercedes is lying back on the pillows. Like unwilling strands of sticky honey, their hands catch to and peel away cloth, until nothing remains.

Ingrid appreciates the vast expanse of Mercedes' thighs with her mouth, pressing kisses and sucking strawberry-red marks onto them. Mercedes gasps, a slight smile on her face, and Ingrid, still feeling a little stubborn, ghosts light fingers on the underside of her knee.

Mercedes jerks with laughter, and meets her eyes with a pout, and Ingrid simply says, "For making me wait two dough rises." Her faux-annoyed pout turns into a gasp as Ingrid resumes her previous path along her thighs.

She's greeted by the thick glaze of Mercedes' arousal, and Ingrid leans forward for a taste. Sugary with want and spiced with desire, she runs her tongue along the length of molten folds to flick the candied-slick nub at the top, and then does it again.

When she pushes in her tongue and teases her cherry-pink clit with her fingers, Mercedes coos out honeyed moans mixed with her name, and tugs at her hair as she did to unwilling flour, and Ingrid feels a calmness spread through her body, unsettled only by the pulsing warmth in her own core.

When Mercedes comes, Ingrid tastes a sweetness as dreamy as her pastries, and laps it up with the same eagerness. Ingrid lets her hips buck into her face, meeting slick flesh with a flat tongue.

When Mercedes flips them around, her smile tastes like the apple pie she makes on Wednesdays – spiced and sugared all at once. Her hands roam across the planes of her stomach, her touch as light as flour.

Hands, firm in their approach to pastry, become delicate as they tease out moans from her mouth, which are swallowed by a hungry mouth. Ingrid doesn't mind – Mercedes' hunger and her own aren't too far apart.

Fingers trace the slickness of her folds, and two fingers slip in without resistance. They curl and massage with intent, and Ingrid feels her insides melt into jelly as Mercedes coaxes and coaches and schools her body as she did with the dough, to obey her hands and her fingers.

Ingrid comes with a cry, electric smarts of pleasure dancing along her throat and spine and legs, sharp and tart like a citrus pie, and Mercedes continues to temper the rest of her crest until she feels like thick, gooey chocolate.

Mercedes kisses her again, lips fond and kind, and they collapse under the sheets, limbs mixing like the cinnamon sugar she made today. It feels just as calming, and they float in the sugar high together, through cotton-candy-pink clouds of warmth and happiness.

She smiles then, Mercedes mumbles against her forehead, "Goodnight, sweetheart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ye i was hungry for cakes and coochie--*is shot*
> 
> please check out [crypt's](https://twitter.com/cryptidchickpea/status/1317702992234045441?s=20) wonderful art for this chapter!


	7. All Part of His Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She turns to see Mercedes, and something thrums in her chest when she notices the way her old, baggy t-shirt holds the gentle slopes and soft curves of her body, stopping just enough to reveal the pale expanses of her creamy, rich thighs.
> 
> Lately, they prefer laying in bed together and talking until one of them falls asleep. Mercedes usually dozes off first, tired from all the running around at the orphanage. She looks even sweeter when asleep, mouth parted and face relaxed, eyelashes quivering with her dreams.
> 
> She's aware of how it all sounds.

Ingrid isn't sure how things changed or what changed exactly, but it makes her days mellow and calm and full.

She's making breakfast, and while she is a firm believer in something hearty to last the day, Mercedes doesn't share the sentiment – something about a weak stomach when she wakes up. So while sausages heat up in the pan, she's cutting strawberries and bananas.

It happens like a dam breaking – the cracks letting things slip before everything gushes free. The change makes the world seem less ready to yank on an errant hand or cloth and rip her to pieces. Instead, there's a delightful softness to it that makes things smoother and sweeter and gentler, and less nerve-wracking than before.

It puzzles her because she knows that the world isn’t made of soft slopes and gentle curves, but of hard angles and sharp points.

"Good morning," comes a sleepy voice from behind her.

She turns to see Mercedes, and something thrums in her chest when she notices the way her old, baggy t-shirt holds the gentle slopes and soft curves of her body, stopping just enough to reveal the pale expanses of her creamy, rich thighs.

"Good morning," Ingrid says, and keeps staring as the older woman draws up a mug of tea.

Perhaps it's the companionship. Mercedes understands, sometimes wordlessly, of the raging questions and guilt gnawing at her mind, and soothes the soreness with balmy words and soft touches. Ingrid is not used to that kind of delicateness, preferring instead to harden herself to the next onslaught of sharpness and roughness, until it became who she was.

But Mercedes doesn't listen to her out of pity or out of duty, rather, because she knows what it feels like. Their lives are not too far apart, dancing on similar tangents of family duties and half-realised dreams. Maybe that's why it all feels less soul-crushing, because here is someone who understands what it feels like to be torn between two unstoppable forces.

Mercedes catches her staring then, eyes twinkling over the tea cup, and she hums, "What are you looking at?"

"Oh, nothing." Ingrid turns back to the fruit. She needs more coffee.

An amused huff, and Mercedes is draping herself around her, nuzzling into her neck. "But you seemed so interested."

Ingrid can't help the smile that stretches across her face, and she says, "Just admiring your shirt."

Mercedes giggles, warm air curling against her neck. "Oh, I see. I'm going to keep it, since it's _mine_ , after all."

Ingrid puts the knife down to turn and scowl at Mercedes, but the taller girl only holds her tighter and laughs harder. She gives up with a tired sigh, and is rewarded with a kiss on her cheek.

Ingrid busies herself with the cooking, and Mercedes eventually untangles herself to finish up her tea. When she turns to grab plates, she catches Mercedes staring at her, and Ingrid blinks before breaking into a smile.

"And what are you staring at?"

"Hmm. You."

The answer is shy and frank at the same time, and it makes Ingrid laugh. Mercedes shuffles over and kisses her, soft and slow, and Ingrid smiles against her lips.

"Can I do more than just look?" breathes Mercedes, smile teasing.

"I have work."

Mercedes laughs at her, and pushes her away with a fake-pout. "I can't get in the way of your duty, right, officer?"

Ingrid pulls her back for a kiss, and mumbles, "I know what you're doing."

Mercedes blinks not-so-innocently. "What am I doing, officer?"

Ingrid shakes her head, smile threatening to break her facade. Mercedes waits for her to say something, biting her lip and holding back her laughter. The morning sunlight twinkles through the kitchen windows, and in that warmth, Ingrid knows she has a choice.

She reaches for the drawer instead.

Breakfast now ready, she hands Mercedes a bowl of granola, yoghurt and fruit. Her own plate of eggs and sausages is cooling on the counter. Mercedes takes the bowl with a smile, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

Ingrid clears her throat. She needs a lot more coffee. 

-

It's her off-day, and Mercedes is sitting on the newspaper sprawled on her bedroom floor, surrounded by paints and brushes and paper. Ingrid eases herself onto the floor without disturbing anything.

It started out with an activity night at the orphanage, and the kids had smeared a colourful selection of paints on paper and clothing. Mercedes had noticed Ingrid scowling at her own painting, and upon her asking, Ingrid had mumbled, "I keep practicing, but my paintings always turn out so bad."

Which had led to Mercedes sweetly smiling and suggesting that they paint together, because "a little bit of practice never hurt anybody". Mercedes herself was an incredible artist, her paintings somehow as soft and warm and full of colour as she was. So Ingrid had accepted her offer, when Mercedes had called it a 'date'.

It's fine. Mercedes is staying the night anyway, and this was just a way to pass the time till then.

Ingrid, a stickler for rules, had got a bowl of fruit and placed it between them. Mercedes sees it and giggles.

"What's that for?"

"It's a model, to practice." She looks at the wobbly circle on her paper that is an orange. "Still life is supposed to be the best place to start."

Mercedes hums airily, and props her phone up against a pot of paint. "Don't pressurise yourself to do the best right away, Ingrid. It's all about having fun and trying your best."

Ingrid shoots her a look, and Mercedes laughs.

"I know, I know. You want it to be perfect, but there's no need to push yourself. We have all night after all," says Mercedes, smiling sweetly.

Ingrid turns back to the fruit quickly. Her old art teacher had told her that lighting was the most important part of still life, and so she was focusing only on that, and not on the way Mercedes was humming a choir hymn under her breath.

Several agonising attempts to draw fruit later, Mercedes breaks the easy silence with, "When did you start painting?"

"When I was about seven." Ingrid uncaps a pot of orange and dumps it onto her palatte – a disposable plate. "I liked it a lot. It was calming, and I would try to draw anything I could. My dad even hired a teacher for me."

"Aren't you full of surprises," giggles Mercedes. "Look at you, Miss Trained Artist."

She looks at the smudge of burnt sunset on the plate, and sighs. Ingrid gestures to the grotesque forms of fruit on the paper, and says, "You can see that I didn't train for very long."

"Oh, stop that. It looks fine." Mercedes is painting a picture of the orphanage based on a picture she took. Ingrid sees the outline and remembers the day – it had been Elsa's birthday, and Mercie had organised a big celebration for the kids. Ingrid smiles at the memory. "Why did you stop?"

There's a silence, and Ingrid wonders how much she should say. She can feel Mercedes' gaze on her, and she knows what it looks like.

"I told my dad I wasn't interested in it anymore," says Ingrid. That's part of the truth, but there's more. Mercedes is still listening, so she sighs and says, "Classes were expensive, and we didn't have that kind of money lying around. So I told him I didn't want to draw anymore. But…"

Ingrid remembers sketching and colouring inanimate objects in her room with the door locked. Since then, her art hadn’t improved.

Mercedes says nothing for a moment, and then hums, "You haven't given up though, and that's what counts. Your art is lovely, sweetheart, and some practice is all you need."

She turns to catch Mercedes' eyes, and there's nothing but kindness in them, so Ingrid says, softly, "Maybe you could...help me?"

An exuberant smile spreads across Mercedes' face, and she shifts closer to her, newspaper rustling, until their shoulders bump. "It's time a self-taught artist showed you the ropes. First off, no fruit. That's so boring," she says, taking away the bowl, and Ingrid bursts into a laugh.

"My art teacher would have a heart attack if he heard you, now."

"Well, he's no longer your teacher, hm? I am. I think you should paint things you want to paint, not things just sitting around."

Mercedes pauses, thinking. An idea strikes her, and her face lights up. It warms Ingrid from the inside.

“Why don't you paint a picture of you and the boys?"

"P-People? Mercie, I'm not that good at–"

"Nonsense. Have you tried it before?" Ingrid shakes her head. "Then you'll never know if you're good or not. Besides," and her features soften sweetly, "I think you always paint better when you're painting things that mean a lot to you."

The orphanage starts making more sense, but Ingrid still isn't sure. So she bargains with, "Let me paint Sylvain's house, then." The place has a lot of sweet memories, roughhousing with the boys in Sylvain's massive backyard.

"Whatever you like, sweetie."

They get back to work, and Ingrid is loathe to admit that Mercedes was right, in a way. The style still needs a lot of work, but there's a familiarity and a fondness with which she drags the brush across a fresh sheet of paper, and she finds herself smiling.

The finished product isn't perfect, not by a long shot, but she's proud of it, which is a long way from how she was feeling earlier. It's no match to Mercedes' own painting, a beautiful rendition of the orphanage on a warm afternoon, but she gushes over Ingrid's painting nevertheless, and smirks when Ingrid doesn't counter her praise.

As their paintings dry in a corner, Mercedes wraps her arms around Ingrid's waist and rests her head on her shoulder. Softly, she says, "You're very thoughtful."

"Oh?"

"With the art classes, I mean."

"I didn't have any other choice."

"But you did."

Ingrid keeps quiet, fumbling with the brush on the floor. The paint has made the bristles stick out in awkward angles.

"It just breaks my heart that you had to choose against what you wanted to do."

Ingrid twists to catch Mercedes' eyes and says, "Sometimes you just can't have what you want." She's surprised by the bitterness in her voice. "My family's financial situation has always been weak. The crash happened during my grandfather's time, and my father wasn't able to fix it. But he thinks I can, for some reason."

"What do you mean?"

Ingrid sighs. "Either he wants me to fix the business on my own, or he wants me to marry rich to pay off our loans."

Mercedes' eyes are heavy with unspoken understanding, and she cups her cheek gently. Ingrid leans into the touch, and they sit like that for a moment.

"Someone very clever told me that we aren't pawns to be used, and that we should chase our dreams," she says, breaking the quiet.

Ingrid smiles at her, but her heart isn't in it. "She's not all that clever."

"On the contrary. I think she's very clever, and thoughtful, and kind." Ingrid meets her gaze, and Mercedes smiles. "She's also very determined to meet her dreams, and I think that's very brave of her."

Ingrid swallows, and looks down. It was an idealistic move, when she first moved out of her house and joined the force, but there are days where the guilt makes her limbs heavy and mind unresponsive. She feels it more regularly of late, when her father calls her up to check on her, or when she watches her mother cook in the home she grew up in, the home she's supposed to save.

"Hey." The word is soft, cajoling her mind to return from where it had wandered to. "I know it's not easy. But I think you're doing a wonderful job, sweetheart. Just remember that when things get difficult."

Ingrid can do that, so she smiles weakly again, and nods. "Thank you, Mercie."

"It's no problem at all." Her soft look switches to something more teasing as she leans back. Ingrid misses the warmth almost immediately. "Now, as your teacher, I'm going to give you another assignment."

"Let me guess, you want me to paint people this time? I have no idea how to draw people, Mercie."

But Mercedes surprises her by kissing her hotly, and whispers when they break away, "I think the best way to learn anatomy is when the model is nude."

Ingrid feels a flush crawl down her neck and splutters, but Mercie is already unbuttoning her blouse and leaning in for another kiss.

Well. They do have all night, after all.

-

There's no reason for her to be stressed, but she is.

Dorothea and Mercedes are both adults. They're similar in some ways, but different in others, and they're going to get along fine. Great, in fact. They both like fashion. Maybe they'll talk about that.

Mercedes had tipped her plans for the orphanage into action by finally taking in a few children from the streets. However, she had mentioned that a few of them were still very hesitant and nervous to open up to her. Ingrid, foolishly, had suggested that she speak to Dorothea, as she would be able to give her some insight into their feelings. Which is why the two women were together right now, having lunch.

Ingrid takes a deep breath and continues pacing her room. She's told Dorothea about the things she's not supposed to talk to Mercedes about, and the brunette had giggled and teased her non-stop before finally agreeing. No conversations about Ingrid's love life, no conversation about Ingrid's past goof-ups, no conversations about anything embarrassing.

It's not that she doesn't want Mercedes to know. Mercedes is kind and non-judgemental, and Ingrid has told her about deeper, personal things with excellent results. She has always been understanding, beyond reason, and Ingrid knows that she's comfortable sharing things with her.

It's not anything weird. The stories are usually about Ingrid being too emotionally dumb to realise what was going on around her. Or drunk stories, of which Dorothea has plenty of. Or about when they were kids, and Ingrid was a repressed raging lesbian, and thought that her obsession with female superheroes was because of the character (it was the character, but also their tits).

She just wants Mercedes to have a good opinion of her, that's all.

Ingrid slumps onto her bed with a sigh.

Over the last few days, she's been deciphering the jumble of thoughts in her head. Ingrid has never been good at unpacking emotions from the carefully organised boxes she shoves them into, typically leaving them alone until they stop bothering her. But this particular box has been leaking all over the place, and it's been distracting her a lot. Well, Mercedes has been distracting her a lot.

They're friends with benefits. Ingrid thought that the easy conversations and companionship they had and the mutual comfort they gave each other for their similar problems was just another...benefit. It just makes the whole process easier, doesn't it? Dorothea hadn't thought so, on their last phone conversation, when Ingrid had told her the list of off-limits topics.

Her exact words being, "Ingrid, if you keep being this dumb, I'm going to beat you with my purse so badly you won't be able to walk for the next week."

Ingrid hadn't told Dorothea about the way they haven't been having as much sex lately, preferring instead to just lay in bed together and talk until one of them falls asleep. Mercedes usually dozes off first, tired from all the running around at the orphanage. She looks even sweeter when asleep, mouth parted and face relaxed, eyelashes quivering with her dreams.

She's aware of how it all sounds.

The problem is that this was not the plan. This was strictly casual, established right from the start. They see each other, sleep with each other, and then...that's it. Ingrid is clearly unfamiliar with the process, but that is the arrangement according to popular understanding, so that is what she and Mercedes have to be.

Besides, it would be unfair for her to press for anything more with Mercedes, she realises with a pang. Mercedes also has familial pressures, and more importantly, has never expressed that she wanted it to be anything more. Neither of them have the time to do anything more than mess around.

Ingrid grunts and rolls over to her side. She decides to ignore the rush of feelings in her chest and focus on how to fix the problem instead.

The rules have changed from their initial set-up, and that needs to be reinstated from her end. Talking about this to Mercedes is out of the question. She needs a plan. Maybe if she tells Mercedes to come home after dinner, they won't have time to do anything but sleep together.

Ingrid ignores the pang in her stomach.

She's saved by the sound of her phone ringing, and she scrambles across the bed to see Dorothea's name lighting up the screen.

"Hello? How'd it go?"

"Oh, it went really well."

"Dorothea, did you–"

A pleased laugh crackles through the phone. "Don't you worry, my Ingrid. I didn't tell her anything. We talked about the kids, and I gotta say, she's something else. She told me about her plan, and I'm on board. Heck, it's helping the kids and telling Crusty to stick it where the sun shines. How could I say no?"

A rush of relief floods through Ingrid, and she breathes, "Good."

"Not bad, Ingrid. Finally, a girlfriend I like."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Dorothea? She's...She's not my girlfriend."

Dorothea catches the crack in her voice. "My Ingrid, is everything–"

"I'm getting another call, I'll call you later." And Ingrid disconnects and throws the phone away somewhere.

-

Ingrid manages to last two weeks before cracking.

It's a lot harder than she expects. She can pin her avoidance on work only so many times, and so she drags Felix and Sylvain into this unwittingly. For all the shit they put her through, they owe her this much.

By day four, she missed being held, and by day seven, she was incredibly horny. But like Dorothea always said, if there's one thing she's good at, it's denying herself of things. She thinks it's just a matter of being diligent and sticking to a perfect plan.

So she made it two weeks, and as per the plan, Mercedes is coming home after dinner. There's no need to worry, she's got a plan, and she's going to follow through with it perfectly.

When she opens the door to Mercedes' soft smile, however, she knows she's fucked.

Mercedes kisses her first (not according to the plan), and then hums against her lips, "I missed you."

Ingrid clears her throat and looks away. "Missed you too."

Mercedes giggles, and Ingrid smiles fondly, before catching herself. When the older woman makes her way to her room, Ingrid follows, horrified at how everything is already falling apart. She needs to get her shit together, stat.

The door clicks shut behind her, and she pulls Mercedes flush against her, nibbling her lower lip and slipping in her tongue. Mercedes is warm and soft, and hums into the kiss. When they part, Ingrid peppers kisses down her neck, and Mercedes breathes, "Someone's very excited to see me."

Ingrid grunts, before diving back for a kiss and pushing her backwards until they bump against the bed. She needs to keep this momentum going, so she presses her lips against the spot behind Mercedes' ear that drives her wild, and notes with some satisfaction when her breath hitches.

"Ah, Ingrid, hang on," breathes Mercedes, and Ingrid pulls away. "Give me a second, please?"

"Oh, sure." Ingrid steps back. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, of course. Let me just freshen up," says Mercedes, pecking her cheek and disappearing into the bathroom.

Momentum abruptly halted, Ingrid plonks herself on the bed and sighs into her hands. It's okay. They can resume this as soon as Mercedes comes back, and the perfect plan can commence.

Ingrid is nervously scrolling through her phone when she hears the door click, and turns to see Mercedes wearing one of her t-shirts and Ingrid turns back to her phone quickly. The t-shirt is going to be on the floor soon enough, so for now she just needs to make it until then.

But then she feels Mercedes' hands press against her back, massaging circles on her shoulder blades, and Ingrid realises that the plan is going to be an utter and complete failure.

"You're so tense," hums Mercedes, pressing a soft kiss to her ear. "Work stressing you out?"

"Something like that," grumbles Ingrid, relaxing into the touch faux-unwillingly. "I've been planning some things for a long time, and it's not working out." Close enough to the truth.

Mercedes giggles. "You're a planner, aren't you?"

"It's good to have one." Look where that fucking went.

"Hmm, Annie's like this too. She says it makes her feel a little more in control of things. Is it the same for you?"

Ingrid grunts out a sigh as she catches a particularly stiff spot.

"Yeah, something like that. Also, I have a framework to go back to, if things get out of hand." Not this time though, because she can feel herself melting back into Mercedes' arms.

"The two of you are both so…tense, in the way you do things," says Mercedes affectionately. "Sometimes, you just need to go with the flow."

Ingrid looks at her with an incredulous expression. Mercedes stops massaging her shoulders to laugh.

"I'm being serious! Sometimes, just letting things happen is the best way to handle things," says Mercedes, going back to the knots on Ingrid's shoulder.

Sighing from the relief, Ingrid says, "I’m not so sure, Mercie. I like having a plan."

"Does it always work out the way you want it?"

Ingrid is now fully leaning against Mercedes, feeling like putty under her ministrations, wanting nothing more than to cuddle up against her and listen to her breathing until she falls asleep.

"No."

"Then why not give it a try?"

"There are...too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong. And leaving things to chance usually means that you're not ready if something bad happens."

"Maybe something bad won't happen," hums Mercedes, abandoning the massage to wrap her arms around Ingrid's shoulder and pull her in closer. Her breath curls along her temple, and Ingrid closes her eyes.

"You can't count on a maybe."

"Oh, you. No wonder you and Annie are such good friends. The point is to believe in that, silly, until it's a fact in your head."

Ingrid doesn't get it, but she asks, "And how has that worked for you?"

"Hmm. It's worked in some cases, but not so well in others."

Ingrid opens her eyes and notices the wistful look in Mercedes' eyes. It quickly vanishes, replaced with something different. But before she can decipher what it is, Mercedes is leaning away from her, and she slumps on the bed, reaching for her warmth.

"Hey," complains Ingrid.

Mercedes giggles and says, “But speaking of planning, you seemed very excited earlier.”

Ingrid catches the naughty look in her eye, and tells herself that this was good. Things are going back on track. Mercedes urges Ingrid onto her lap and kisses her, tongue and lips moving sensually enough to show Ingrid what she wanted. When they part, however, Mercedes seems a little distracted.

“What is it?”

“Oh? Nothing.” She’s smiling again. “Just wondering if those plans of yours involved me wearing my strap.”

“They didn’t. But they can. I think that’s a great idea. All plans are subject to adaptation.”

Mercedes giggles against her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ingrid: *experiences more than one (1) emotion*  
> ingrid:  
> ingrid: lmao nvm


	8. Little Battles In The Holy War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aren't you kids tired of studying?" There's a chorus of agreement. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off and go play?"
> 
> It's enough for them, and a rushing torrent of bodies roars past her and towards freedom. Ingrid watches them run away, smile threatening to burst off her face. She rises and turns to Mercedes, who has her hands on her hips, pouting.
> 
> "Ingrid! They have classes now, you know--"
> 
> Ingrid crosses the space between them and kisses Mercedes, soundly and firmly, and all her protests die down.
> 
> When they part, Ingrid rests her forehead against Mercedes'. "It worked. He's okay with it," she breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lovely beargoofs drew some beautiful [art](https://twitter.com/beargoofs/status/1285842918608195585?s=19) for this chapter

Ingrid is stressed.

She knows because everyone on the road is suddenly driving like an idiot, either crossing lanes with reckless abandon or going far past the acceptable speed limit. Dorothea has told her that she glares like a middle-aged woman looking for the store's manager when she's on the road, but Ingrid thinks it's justified, when people drive like they own the damn road.

Good things have happened. She had solved a child abduction case recently that had earned a bit of positive press for the precinct, and her face had been splashed all over the local news channel last evening. It had been a heart-warming story, and the reporter had even brought out how she would go to Mercie's orphanage every weekend to drive home the fact that she had a soft spot for kids. Ingrid thought the story was pushing the sentiment slightly, because she was just doing her job, but she let it slide.

This morning, she had awoken to a message from her father, inviting her home for a lunch featuring all of her favourite childhood dishes to celebrate, amid several other messages and calls.

It's a sweet sentiment, she knows this. But she also knows that she's got an agenda for today. Ingrid knows her family, so she is also aware that her plan might spoil an otherwise innocent celebration.

The traffic has come to a standstill, and Ingrid rests her head on the wheel with a sigh.

When she pulls up to the house, her stomach lurches unpleasantly. The driveway of her ancestral home is massive, but there are only two cars parked in the garage. She steps out of the car, and her movements slip into an old familiarity, pushing her towards the two-storey house despite her reluctance.

The lawn has withered away, replaced with a few pots of hardy plants that her mother tends to carefully in the mornings. The shed tucked away in a corner beside the house looks desolate and alone, and Ingrid knows that if she looks inside, she won't find anything inside save for a few odds and ends. The curtains of the windows on the second floor are all drawn, the many guest bedrooms either empty or filled with heirlooms that are either too sentimental to let go of or have no monetary value.

Ingrid's family home is a gift from her ancestors, but when you take away the exquisite wrapping and silky ribbons, there's old, moulding newspaper instead of light tissue, and the present is nothing more than a promise to do better next time.

Conrad opens the door, and pulls her into a strong, rib-crushing hug.

"Congratulations," he says.

"Let me go, you're hurting me," grunts Ingrid in response.

Her brother releases her with a grin, and then smacks her shoulder and pushes her to the dining room. Her parents are at the table already, and her father rises when he sees her, a smile on his face. Ingrid walks into his outstretched arms easily.

"Good that you're here," he rumbles into the hug. "Come, let's eat."

When Ingrid releases him, she notices that he's got more grey hair now, the roots now a smattering of silver and cement.

When her mother rounds the table to give her a kiss, she wonders how much it cost to make so many dishes, for just their family of four.

When they hold hands to say Grace, Ingrid squeezes her brother's hand. He squeezes back, and shoots her a comforting smile between their bent heads.

But then it's time to eat, and Ingrid forgets everything to stuff her face full of her mother's cooking, still warm and flavourful and delicious. Her father and Conrad start talking business at the dinner table despite her mother's disapproving looks, but Ingrid smiles through a mouthful of roast chicken when Conrad pouts, just as he did when they were little.

By the time Ingrid has put away all of the food and is leaning back on her chair, a happy, post-meal grin on her face, they've devolved into talking about finances again. Ingrid tries to ignore it by focusing on the tray of apple crumble her mother brings in, and heaps some onto her plate with some ice cream. When she takes a bite, she's taken back to several similar meals in her childhood, only so extravagant on her or her brother's birthdays, and the way her parents had smiled at her then.

Ingrid is helping her mother and brother put away the dishes when her father peeps into the kitchen and says, "Ingrid, a word, please?"

Her throat goes dry. She knows what's coming. Passing on the plates in her heavy hands to her brother, she mumbles, "Sure, Dad."

Ingrid follows her father into his study, fists clenched, breathing measured, and watches as he rounds his desk and fumbles with some papers. He's got a guarded smile as he rumages, a bit too casually, with the letters on his desk. Owed payments or dues from the bank, or…

"Now, Ingrid, I wanted to talk to you about something." And there's the marriage proposal, lifted from the top of his papers. "I wanted you to take a look at this proposal from the Gloucesters. Their son, Lorenz, is around your age, and they're looking for a marriage alliance."

An _alliance_. As if this is some sort of romantic tale from knighthood, with two armies charging into a war. Ingrid knows of Lorenz, the eldest son of a wealthy local politician. Her stomach, formerly purring from all the food, churns.

Ingrid forces the thoughts to still, and eases a quiet huff of air under her breath. It's time to start the plan, and she needs to be composed to see it through successfully.

Putting on her best smile, Ingrid leans over the hardwood desk and takes the letter from her father's hands. She can sense his shock when she opens the letter instead of tearing it to pieces and screaming at him. What he doesn't know is that Ingrid is trying desperately to pretend to read the letter, but words like, "homely girl", "handsome dowry" and "tie our homes with marriage" pounce at her through the paper and clamp down on her throat.

Swallowing through the lump, Ingrid closes the letter. "I'll take a look at it later, Dad."

He blinks back the surprise and says, "Yes, good. Good! The Gloucesters are an old and established--" read as wealthy and orthodox, "--family, and their son is truly a respectable young man. He's already taken over their businesses, and intends on running for a seat in the City Council next year, it seems."

Ingrid forces herself to nod, holding the letter tightly. "Oh, I see."

It's not an acceptance, but it's not a torn letter on the floor, so her father smiles, the same genuine smile from the memories of her birthday.

"I'm glad, Ingrid. I think this will be a great arrangement." For the family, not for her, screams the rebellious part of her mind. "If you wish, you can get in touch with Lorenz directly, and you two may get to know each other better before you come to a decision."

Ingrid hums, tearing her gaze away from his dazzling smile. It's enough for her father, who walks over to her and gives her a hug, grasping her shoulders firmly. Ingrid has to meet his eyes then, and smiles through the waves of panic. It's time.

"I wanted to talk to you about something, too," she rasps. Bless her father, as his head tilts with concern. "It's nothing bad. Let's...Let's sit."

Her legs are wobbly and unreliable. They sit on the two chairs by his desk. Ingrid fiddles with the edge of the letter, trying to think of what to say. She's always been poor with words, and she needs them to work for her now more than ever.

"Um. About the news coverage. Gilbert is really happy about it," she says. "There's been some talk in the station about promotions and about salary hikes, and Gilbert told me privately that I'm probably going to get it."

Her father leans back in his chair and hums, non-committal, and Ingrid tries not to lose her steam.

"If he gives me the promotion, I'm going to take it. Before you say anything," says Ingrid, holding up her hands as her father straightens, "I know what you had said."

She had three years, her father had said, when she started working in the precinct. To be exact, he had spat out, "You have three years to indulge in this childish nonsense, and then I want you back with the company." That time had flown by with startling speed, days filled with slippery joy and desperate happiness, and her time was nearly up.

"But things have changed," pushes Ingrid. "Dad, I love my job. You saw for yourself yesterday, on television. My efforts are being recognised. People have been calling all day to congratulate me." It's not why she loves the job, but it's how her father will understand. "There's a pay hike too," she tacks on.

"But, Ingrid," sighs her father. "The family business needs you. Someone needs to carry forward the Galatea business, and you have always been gifted and talented at it, my dear."

Ingrid counts to three, breathing in and out at each number. She forces her tone to be light.

"Conrad has started working at the company, hasn't he? He's just as talented and gifted as me. And he has so many ideas for the company, he's been eating my ear off about all of them."

"Your brother is a child, still. His ideas are ridiculous in practice. The company needs _you_ , Ingrid, not your brother."

But all the company has is Conrad, and father needs to be happy with that. Instead, she says, "He's an adult, and I'm sure you can train him well, Dad."

"If you were here, he could see the way you worked and follow your lead. Don't you remember how well you did when you took over the business? We need that kind of business again, Ingrid, and Conrad doesn't have the mettle needed to lead our company."

The conversation is spiralling out of hand dangerously, and there's no other way to bring it back, so Ingrid fumbles in the dark and yanks on her last resort.

"Dad, please. I love this job. Can't you see how happy I am? I keep people safe and help them out. I wake up every day happy to go in to work, and go to sleep feeling like I've accomplished something. I want to do it forever, Dad."

Her father falls silent. Ingrid is leaning forward, hands curled on her lap, as her father's lips twist, mulling over her pleas. She blinks back the desperation gathering in her eyes, and swallows the anger bubbling up her throat. She needs to keep her composure, but it's threatening to burst apart at the seams.

Finay, her father sighs, and straightens in his seat.

"Ingrid, I'm happy for you. I am. I've noticed how happy you seem over the phone. You...You seem content."

Ingrid waits. There's something more, she can see it in her father's face. His eyes, the same shade of green as her, meets hers, and Ingrid catches the sorrow in them.

"But who would want a police officer as a wife?"

The anger, anxiety, stress and desperation all melt at his words, melt into liquid metal that oozes down her chest and settles into her legs. All the breath in her lungs escapes her with a sharp gasp, and a hollow ache settles into her bones.

So that's what this is all about. Ingrid wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to slam the door as she leaves, wants to curl up in bed and sleep for days. Large dowries go towards women who check all the boxes perfectly, and Ingrid knows she checks nearly none of them.

Ingrid forces herself to smile, but she can taste bitter metal, and all she can say is a soft, pleading whisper, "Dad."

Her father looks at her, mirroring her sorrow.

"Dad," she tries again. Her throat is clogged up.

She coughs to clear her throat, but her hand is shaky when it comes to cover her mouth.

"I'm sure," she begins, her throat raspy and wet at the same time, "that we can work that out later. I know we can work through it. It'll take some convincing, but they'll understand."

The words are full of hope, none of which she feels. Her father frowns, doubt written on every wrinkle, but she braves a smile, hoping it works.

Her father sighs, again. His eyes drop to the letter crushed in her hands.

"Very well."

The weight in her legs bubbles, tingling up her legs and lifting the droop in her chest. He smiles then, as small and hopeful as her, and she launches herself into his arms.

It's a step. But it's the start.

-

It doesn't sink in until she's driving back.

He said yes. Ingrid doesn't have a timer on her passion anymore. She's free to do as she pleases, free to walk into work tomorrow without counting down the number of days she has left.

There are bigger issues in the horizon, she knows, starting with the letter sitting in her glove compartment, but for now, she lets the buzz trill through her body.

Ingrid whoops out loud in the car, and strikes the steering wheel excitedly.

The energy is infectious, spilling and bubbling out of her, and she whirls the wheel and cuts lanes to take the next turn. Someone yells at her, but she ignores it, delirious laughter filling her car.

Her ecstasy takes her to the orphanage, and she parks in front of the church. Slipping out of the car, she runs, feet light and loose, behind the church, and rounding the corner to view the orphanage.

She can hear the chant of children reciting their tables, and makes her way to the classroom on the second floor, two steps at a time. As she bounds down the corridor, the children's voices grow louder, until she stops at the open classroom door.

Mercedes, in a white shirt and peach skirt, stands before the class, smiling as they repeat after her. The children, easily distracted, see her first, and excited cheers explode all around her. Ingrid is tackled by several excited, squiggling little bodies. She grabs Ophelia and lifts her up, spinning her around as the little girl squeals, and laughs, loud and full and free, with the rest.

She catches Mercedes looking at her then, reproachful smile on her face, and Ingrid knows she's disturbed her, but she finds that she doesn't care. She squats down to be eye-level with the kids, and they huddle around her conspiratorially.

"Aren't you kids tired of studying?" There's a chorus of agreement. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off and go play?"

It's enough for them, and a rushing torrent of bodies roars past her and towards freedom. Ingrid watches them run away, smile threatening to burst off her face. She rises and turns to Mercedes, who has her hands on her hips, pouting.

"Ingrid! They have classes now, you know--"

Ingrid crosses the space between them and kisses Mercedes, soundly and firmly, and all her protests die down.

When they part, Mercedes hums against her lips, "My, what's all this?"

Giggling, Ingrid rests her forehead against Mercedes'. "It worked. He's okay with it. I'm...I can continue working at the precinct," she breathes.

"Oh, sweetheart," sighs Mercedes, smiling. Her thumbs brush against her cheeks, and she hums, "I'm so happy for you. This is wonderful news."

Ingrid nods, grinning, and the happiness bubbles over, so she reaches down to lift Mercedes off the floor. She spins them around, laughs echoing in an abandoned classroom, as Mercedes squeaks protests. Ingrid pulls Mercedes down and kisses her again, and she can feel the other woman smile against her lips.

"You silly goose. Put me down!"

Ingrid does, head light with happiness, and pulls Mercedes by the hand out of the classroom.

"Ingrid? Where are we going?"

"You'll see," smirks Ingrid.

Her laughter tinkles through the halls of the orphanage, light and airy, the melody magnifying the rush in her heart. Up a floor, and Ingrid is pulling Mercedes into her office and locking the door behind her.

There's a coy sentence on Mercedes' lips, but Ingrid pushes her back against the door and kisses it out of her. Her tongue slips past soft lips to enter a warm mouth, and they're smiling too much for this to be smooth, but Ingrid doesn't care.

When she pulls back, Mercedes says, "My, my. I quite like this forceful side to you."

Ingrid laughs, almost drunkenly, and says, "Against the desk. I want to eat you out."

Blue eyes widen, and then crinkle with delight as Mercedes throws back her head to laugh. Ingrid can feel herself shake with laughter, but she leans forward to nip at Mercedes' exposed neck.

"Ah, Ingrid! Easy, now!" giggles Mercedes.

"No," she hums against her neck, a silly smile spreading across her face. She ghosts her hands up the plentiful curves of Mercedes' waist, and teases her breasts through her shirt. "I want to make you come so hard that you cancel classes for the rest of the day."

Mercedes moans above her, and then delicate hands are tugging on her hair to pull her up. Their mouths meet again, hot and urgent, and Ingrid bunches the fabric around Mercedes' waist.

"That sounds quite interesting," pants Mercedes, smiling.

Ingrid grins at the naughty twinkle in her eye, spinning them around and pushing Mercedes backwards with kisses and bites until the taller woman is pressed against the desk. Her hands undo the buttons of her blouse, yanking the fabric down smooth shoulders, and Mercedes shimmies out of it with a laugh.

"You're insistent today."

"Mm. I'll eat you out under your desk while you teach, if you want."

Mercedes' eyes darken. "We'll get to that thought in a moment. For now--" and her skirt falls down to the floor, "--I do believe you had a plan?"

Ingrid lowers herself to her knees, snagging the edge of Mercedes' underwear and pulling them down until she can step out of them. Her knees part for her insistently, and Ingrid takes in a sharp breath when she notices that Mercedes is wet. She presses a kiss to her knee, and then her thigh, sucking and checkering the pale flesh with dark love-bites.

Mercedes curls a hand through her hair and tugs her closer to her cunt, urgent and forceful, and the pressure makes her laugh, breathlessly, against Mercedes' thigh.

"Now who's being insistent?"

Mercedes opens her mouth to answer, but that's when Ingrid presses a kiss to her clit, pink and protruding with want, and Mercedes gasps softly. Her folds glisten, so Ingrid runs her tongue through them, gathering the sweet arousal on her tongue, and swallows.

Mercedes sucks in a breath, and breathes out, "Oh, that's...that's good. Keep going, sweetheart."

Spurred on, Ingrid does the motion again, this time massaging her labia with her lips and tongue. The action has Mercedes twisting her hands into her hair tighter, her head light with desire.

"Good, good. You're so good."

The praise shoots down her body and gathers between her legs, and she moans softly against Mercedes clit. Mercedes moans out a breathless laugh.

"You like that? I suppose you deserve it, s-seeing how well you've been doing of late."

Ingrid groans again, and takes Mercedes' clit into her mouth slowly, first licking the tip in her mouth before sucking. She loves how Mercedes tastes -- somehow as sweet and spicy as Ingrid knows her to be -- and urges one of her legs over her back.

Mercedes curves her knee, pulling Ingrid into her deeper, and Ingrid can't breathe, resorting instead to licking and flicking Mercedes' clit with her tongue. The pressure lasts for only a moment, and Mercedes releases her. Ingrid dips her head and drags her tongue up her slit, flat and forceful.

"Oh, th-that's good. Again, sweetheart."

Ingrid's mouth waters as she repeats the motion.

"Good girl."

She soars. Head light and heady, she can do no more than pull away and look up at Mercedes, arousal dribbling down her lips and chin. Mercedes catches her wide-eyed gaze and smiles naughtily, brushing the sweat-slicked hair off her forehead.

"Aren't you the sweetest thing...get back to work, precious. Else you'll make me upset. Do you want that?"

"N-No," breathes Ingrid.

"Then go on, sweetheart."

Ingrid presses her mouth onto Mercedes' slit with renewed vigour. Her mind is blank and hazy, floating among clouds of pleasure and warmth, and she sucks and lick and nibbles desperately. Catching her folds with her lips, kissing her clit with reverence, and pressing her tongue against her entrance, all to hear it again.

But it's only when she presses a finger into Mercedes does she moan, long and low, and whimpers, "Yes...that's my good girl."

She curls her finger in the molten warmth, and it elicits a cry from the woman above her, so she does it again, pressing kisses onto her clit. Mercedes tugs on her hair and whispers praises that send her mind tumbling and scattering into the pink, plush haze.

She pulls back when the ache in her legs grows insistent.

"Mercedes," she whimpers. "Please, can I touch myself…"

There's a wicked, delighted laugh, and Mercedes is stroking her cheek fondly.

"I knew you'd ask. My precious, perfect girl...of course you can. But don't forget--" and she pulls her back in with her knee.

Desperately, Ingrid slips a hand into her jeans. She's so wet already that it isn't difficult to circle her clit with two fingers. One hand gripping Mercedes' thigh to hold her close, Ingrid pushes deeper into her pussy.

The smell of her arousal, the taste of her juices, the sight of her swollen clit -- it all builds inside of her as she works herself and the woman on top of her urgently. She latches on to Mercedes' nub and sucks, licking the space below it briefly, before taking it back into her mouth.

"Yes, Ingrid, good, good, oh, you're so good, my sweetheart, _yes!"_

It's the sound of Mercedes' voice, high with want, praising her through moans, that makes her come into her hand. Her moans tremble against Mercedes' slit, and a few more licks makes Mercedes thighs tremble around her head as she comes.

Ingrid pulls away to look up, catching the dazed look in Mercedes' eyes, and she breathes, "Oh...my sweet Ingrid, my darling...good job, sweetheart…"

The air rings with the words. She peppers her thighs with kisses and ghosts her hand across soft flesh, goosebumps following her fingers, as she pulls out the hand in her pussy. Slowly, she pushes herself up on aching knees, and Mercedes catches her cheeks and pulls her into a kiss. Her tongue runs along Ingrid's and slips into her tongue, catching all traces of herself, debauched and wanting.

When they part, Mercedes hums against her lips, "That was lovely. Thank you."

"No," breathes Ingrid, resting her forehead against Mercedes'. Her head thrums, from the happiness and the praise alike, and it casts a gentle glow through her limbs. "Thank _you_."

-

Ingrid parks in her designated spot near Dorothea's house, and walks over to the door.

Following every big moment in their lives, it's tradition for them to climb up to Dorothea's terrace armed with a bottle of whiskey, and drink until either the bottle is over or one of them can't stand anymore. The last time was when Dorothea's new play had debuted to roaring praise and rave reviews, and the time before that was when Ingrid had solved a big robbery case.

It's been a while since she came to see Dorothea, thinks Ingrid with a wince. Maybe the brunette won't take it too harshly. The door opens, and Dorothea lazes against it.

"Finally remembered to return my calls, hm?"

Ingrid flinches, and tries to make it up by holding up the bottle of whiskey.

There's an amused twinkle in Dorothea's eyes, and she lets Ingrid in through the door. Manuela is lounging on the couch, glasses perched on her nose, absorbed in a book. When she sees Ingrid, she shuts the book with a snap and stands, arms open.

"Ingrid, it's been so long," she says. "Congratulations on the case, I saw it on TV."

Ingrid grins into the hug. "Thank you, Ms Cassagranda."

Manuela releases her with a wink, and says, "Now, don't get too drunk. Take a bottle of water with you."

Dorothea rolls her eyes affectionately, and pulls Ingrid into the kitchen, where they collect some mixers, snacks and water, before heading to the roof. They climb up carefully, and Ingrid lays out all their goodies carefully on the floor, before lowering herself to sit by Dorothea.

"Cheers," says Dorothea, holding up her glass. "To another case solved."

"Cheers," agrees Ingrid, smiling as she takes a large gulp.

There's a lot to fill each other on. Dorothea begins, with a flourish, about her new relationship with Petra, and Ingrid covers her ears as she goes on and on about her arms and her body and her thighs. Ingrid tells her about the great success at home a few days ago, and Dorothea's eyes are round with happiness as she pulls her into a hug.

"Oh, Ingrid, I'm so happy for you," sighs Dorothea. Ingrid grins and holds her closer. They're definitely getting a little drunk.

"Thanks, Dot. Finally. It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders."

Dorothea leans back, head tilted. "But you said your dad gave you another proposal?"

Taking a large gulp of her drink as Dorothea wiggles back, Ingrid says, "Yeah. But that's...something I'll work up to. For now, I have this, so I'm going to take it. I do have a plan for the marriage thing, but that's going to take some time. It's not as easy as just talking to my dad about it after lunch."

Dorothea nods, humming around her cup. There's a smile teasing her lips.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I notice you've been avoiding a certain topic with me since our last phone call," says Dorothea, coy.

Ingrid winces again. "Dorothea, that's unimportant. What matt--"

"Unimportant?" blurts Dorothea. "My Ingrid. Listen to me. Listen." She's definitely drunk. "Mercedes comes into your life, and you're happier than I remember you, ever. You weren't even this happy when you were with me."

"Dorothea, no--" Ingrid hurries to correct her, but is shushed by Dorothea.

"Wait, I'll explain it properly." Dorothea puts her drink down, and then rearranges herself until she's sitting cross-legged.

"So," she begins. "Things have changed. You've changed. You remember how you were when we were dating? So closed off and so nervous all the time. You used to barely hold my hand in public."

"Please don't remind me," groans Ingrid, taking another large gulp of her drink.

"You were scared shitless about everything. Especially your parents. If I even suggested talking to them -- forget the fact that you were dating a girl, even something as simple as the fact that you wanted to move out -- you'd shut me down completely. You wouldn't talk to me for a week."

Ingrid flinches. "I'm sorry, Dorothea."

"No, no. It's fine now. Then, obviously, I was quite hurt." Dorothea flicks her hair back dramatically, and Ingrid rolls her eyes, relieved. "But...it used to be different. Up till recently, you had told me that you'd be okay with a few years of freedom, before going back to your parents and their business and the marriage proposals. Now, look at you. Talking to your parents, making progress, having a plan on how to deal with all of this."

Ingrid takes another gulp of her drink. Dorothea's clear green eyes are boring a hole through her.

"So, tell me, my Ingrid. What is different about her?"

Ingrid sighs. "Can't I say that I suddenly found clarity and purpose?"

Dorothea smacks her arm. She takes that as a no, and sighs, trying to collect her thoughts. They're either scattered all over the place or buried too deep for her to pull up again, so she braces herself.

Surprisingly, it's easy. "She makes me want to be brave."

Dorothea waits as she tries to explain.

"We...have similar issues. And she gets it, Dorothea, like, really gets it. So it's easy for me to talk to her about my parents, and all the things in my head, because either she already knows or she'll listen and understand whatever mess comes out of my mouth. She's trying with the stuff in her life, and so I'm trying with the stuff in mine." Ingrid pauses to take another swig of her drink. "It's easier to deal with things around her. I feel comfortable around her. She's silly and kind, at the same time. I think…"

She trails off, and catches Dorothea looking at her, excited and expectant like a puppy. Ingrid huffs out a tired laugh.

"I think I love her."

Dorothea lets out an excited scream and launches herself at Ingrid, wrapping her arms around her neck. Ingrid wobbles with the extra weight, and braces herself with a hand, gripping the drunk brunette with another.

"Finally! Oh, you stupid fucker, I've been trying to get you to admit it for how long now?" Dorothea leans back and does her best impression of Ingrid. "'Ugh, Dorothea. It's just casual. Bleugh, we're just friends. These are the benefits of a friends-with-benefits.' You absolute moron."

"Okay first, I don't sound like that. Second, now what do I do?"

"You take it to your grave," says Dorothea, rolling her eyes. "No, you fool, tell her! What are you waiting for?"

Ingrid chews her lip. She's admitting it to herself only now, despite knowing it for weeks.

"What if Mercedes doesn't feel the same way? This was supposed to be just casual, after all…"

"Sweet Sothis, give me strength," groans Dorothea into her hands. "Okay, listen. She talks to you about the deep personal things in her life. She asks for your input and advice about her job. She spends a ridiculous amount of time with you, even for a casual thing. She comforts you when you're sad. And after all that, she still wants to fuck you. Should I go on?"

Quietly, Ingrid mumbles to her lap, "...no."

"Good, because it's obvious by just talking to her that she likes you. She gets all sappy and soft whenever I bring you up. So, go see her tomorrow, and tell her."

"Dorothea--"

" _Tomorrow_ , else I'm going to come to your house with my big purse and beat the shit out of you."

"Fine, fine. Please don't hit me with your purse."

Dorothea has got a point. Mercedes does spend a lot of time with her, and they have shared a lot with each other. A lot more than what she would ordinarily share with someone else she was seeing romantically. And there was the fact that she spoke to Dorothea about Ingrid…

"Fine," says Ingrid, sitting up straight. "I'll tell her tomorrow."

"Good! And if you chicken out, call me. I'll make you go back." There's a determined glint in Dorothea's eyes.

Ingrid laughs. "Thank you, Dorothea."

"Ugh, you'd better be grateful. The nonsense I put up for you…"

Ingrid smiles, and reaches for her hands. "I mean it. I know that we didn't work out because of a lot of reasons. But, you helped me come to terms with who I am, and you brought me out of my shell. You showed me, by being yourself, that it was okay being me. I'm fighting the big battles now, but I wouldn't even be doing that if you hadn't helped me fight my battles then." Ingrid pauses, and squeezes her fingers gently. "I'm sorry about how things turned out, especially at the end."

Dorothea's eyes are misty when she says, "I'm sorry too, my Ingrid." She sniffs. "At least you're still here, right?"

"Always, Dorothea."

"Good." And Dorothea shakes herself lightly, as if to shake away the tears still in her eyes. "Because you might have to carry me downstairs."

-

The next morning, Ingrid gets up bright and early, hungover mild because of all the water she drank. She can't say the same for Dorothea, who hides under her blanket and sticks out a finger to point her to where her make-up is.

Ingrid tries to make herself look a little presentable. She can't look like a hungover mess, after all. She combs her hair down neatly, and even tries some of Dorothea's concealer.

"I'm leaving," she announces to the heap of blankets that is Dorothea.

A groan, and then, "You better tell her. I'm too hungover to deal with your bullshit today."

Ingrid smiles, and leaves a pill and some water before heading downstairs. Manuela makes her some breakfast, and chats about an opera she had seen recently. Ingrid only half-listens to her, mind preoccupied while swallowing massive bites.

"Ms Casagranda," she begins, when she's done thanking her for the meal and letting her stay the night. "May I...borrow a flower from your garden?"

It's the right way of doing things, thinks Ingrid, trying not to blush under Manuela's teasing gaze. It's nothing special.

"If it's for someone, you're all the more welcome to," says the older woman with a wink.

Ingrid goes to their garden out front. There are several flowering plants, some large and vibrant, some small and quaint. She's never understood the language of flowers.

She picks a few stems of lavender.

The gravity of what she's about to do hits her when her truck takes the turn for the orphanage and not the precinct. To calm herself, Ingrid prepares a proper way of wording it.

_Mercedes, I know we said we'd be friends-with-benefits, but I don't want to be your friend. No, not like that, I mean--_

Ingrid tries again.

_We have been seeing each other for many months, in a sexual capacity. We should now see each other in a romantic capacity._

She takes a left with a sigh. This is going to be harder than she initially thought. The morning traffic, ridiculous as always, gives her some time to think.

By the time she pulls into the Church's parking lot, she's got a good enough idea on what to say.

_Mercedes, over the last few months, you have grown to mean a lot to me. I love you. If you will have me, I would be yours._

She can do this. All she needs to do is be honest, and open, and remain calm, no matter what happens. Dorothea's words last night rang true, and she understands that they do have a close bond, given everything they're shared with each other. Muttering the sentences under her breath, Ingrid rounds the corner to see the orphanage.

Her eyes widen, and she digs her heels into the dirt to stop.

Mercedes, back turned to her and resplendent in a black blouse and blue skirt, is pointing to the newly-built stage on one end of the field and is saying something.

Her arm is looped in with Lorenz', and he leans close to her, nodding politely. Everything goes still when he presses a kiss to her other hand, and she titters.

There's a silence except for the rushing blood in her ears.

Ingrid turns and walks back to her car.


	9. My Time In Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You haven't been sleeping, have you?"
> 
> "'ave been."
> 
> "You deserve a break, you know that, right?" says Mercedes, now softly tracing the shell of her ear. "You've been doing so well, with your parents and the promotion. You don't need to constantly be proving yourself, sweetheart...it's okay to just rest, sometimes."
> 
> Ingrid realises, with a mirthless twinge, that this is the first time Mercedes hasn't seen right through her.

Ingrid wakes up the next morning, makes her breakfast, and goes to work.

It’s a busy day at the precinct. Well, busy for her. There are case reports to be filed, follow-ups to be tied up, and she’s got a patrol in the afternoon. After that, there’s a hiccup in a case that she needs to discuss with Gilbert, and Sylvain has been asking for her help in one of his cases.

The day passes with a flurry of paper and coffee and scowls thrown at Felix for loudly arguing with Dimitri about some case. Lunch can’t come fast enough, and she and Sylvain decide to head to the Dagdian restaurant nearby to pick up some food for everyone.

Ingrid leans her head back against the headrest. There’s a dull pain pounding against her skull. There’s still so much work to be done.

“Are you okay?” asks Sylvain, turning into the restaurant’s parking lot.

“Too much coffee.”

women behind the counter recognise them the moment they walk in, and smile kindly. One of them asks, “The usual?” and Sylvain winks and says, “Predictable, but reliable. Just like the handsome man before you.”

The woman titters and Sylvain goes on with his nonsense. Ingrid re-reads the menu, by now something she knows off the top of her head, and smiles when she smells their order being prepared from the kitchen.

They pay the women, and carry the lunch back to the car. As Ingrid lowers herself into the passenger-seat, Sylvain asks, again, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sylvain,” she sighs. “What is with you today?”

His face is a careful mask of lightness as the engine hums to life. “I could ask you the same thing. Felix was making enough of a racket to disturb the whole street, and you said nothing.”

Ingrid shifts her focus to the road. She can feel him looking at her.

“I flirted with Marge and Susan just now, and you didn’t hit me.”

“Everything is fine, Sylvain. Stop meddling where it’s not needed.”

The redhead turns back to the road, but his eyes follow her for the rest of the day, careful and anxious.

-

Three days later, Ingrid can see case files when she closes her eyes. They shimmer and jitter, either from the twitching of her eyelids or the copious amounts to coffee she’s consumed. Ingrid isn’t sure which it is, but both sound pretty bad.

There’s simply too much to be done. She’s still up for that promotion, and she doesn’t want Gilbert to think she’s slacking off just because he told her, in private, that she’s going to get it. It’s just Felix, Sylvain, Dimitri and her at the precinct, after all.

Ingrid spots the lavenders in a vase full of water, sitting on the dining table.

Flashes of her returning home, clutching the stems, a broken conversation of Ashe telling her that they can root in water, and her considering if she should or shouldn’t.

Ingrid blinks.

Sylvain’s case was on the right track, but there was the issue of tracking down a vehicle with such generic descriptions as the one they had gotten. As Ingrid piles dinner onto her plate, she considers taking a trip down to the store owner once again and asking him if he could provide any additional details about the getaway vehicle. Compared to the details they had – ‘big, white van’ – any information would be helpful.

She settles into her bed and opens up her laptop to resume the historical drama that she had watched last night. Ingrid munches on dinner and follows the events on screen eagerly. It’s a modern-day retelling of King Loog, with hidden insights into his relationship with his two closest retainers.

Somewhere between the episode, she’s distracted by her phone ringing. Balancing the bowl on her knee, she leans over to the side-table to unplug her phone.

_Hey, sweetheart. How are things? You’ve been quiet for the last few days_

Honestly, Ingrid can’t be angry at her. She, of all the people, understands Mercedes’ predicament the best. The will of their parents looms over them constantly, and there’s very little that can be done when their future has been written and decided in their stead. The expectation to follow through is pervasive and all-consuming.

There’s no place for the anger to flare, so it trips on itself and crashes inside. Ingrid should have known better. In her exuberance, she forgot the larger picture – something she never does. Tunnel vision had trapped her inside the collapsing structure, and she had no one else to blame but herself for it.

_Im fine. Been busy with work_

_I know the big promotion is coming up but don’t strain yourself, ok?_

_Yeah I know_

Ingrid locks her phone and plugs it back. Turns back to the laptop, and presses play. The historian citing the passages from Loog’s right-hand-man continues to highlight the homoerotic subtext between their exchanges.

Nothing registers in her head.

-

Ingrid manages to stay off the incoming black void by plastering paperwork over it, spilling coffee on the floors so it slips, dodging messages and well-intentioned queries, and working long enough hours until she’s too tired to keep her eyes open at the end of the day.

She’ll deal with it later, when it decides to temper down and shrink into something less frighteningly massive. Until then, she just needs to wait it out, and be careful so as to avoid slipping into it. There’s enough work to keep her busy until then.

Off-days then, become somewhat of an issue, so Ingrid decides to take the opportunity to clean the house. The kitchen shelves need reorganising, and she knows Ashe would appreciate the gesture. A full day of doing nothing means she also has time to look into that leak in the laundry room, and might even be able to clean the couch.

By the afternoon, she’s done with the kitchen. She sends a picture of the new and improved spice rack to Ashe, and receives a series of hearts as response, as well as a gif of a chef rolling up their sleeves. Ingrid grins.

She’s crouching by the washing machine and fumbling with some leaky pipes when the doorbell rings. Ingrid wipes her hands on her jeans and looks through the spyhole.

It's Mercedes.

Ingrid rests her forehead against the door.

A flood of nerves settles low in her legs. She doesn't want to see her, because she doesn't know what to say, what to think, what to do. She needs more time to sort out her feelings.

Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out of her pocket to read, _Open the door please? Im outside_

Ingrid realises, with a sigh, that she can keep it all away from her own head, but there are events in motion all around them that she can't run away from or pretend don't exist.

Counting to 15 in her head, Ingrid twists the handle and opens the door. "Hey."

"Hello, stranger." Mercedes smiles, and something aches in Ingrid.

"Um." Ingrid swallows. "What are you...doing here?"

"I thought I'd come check up on you." There's a soft pout on the other woman's lips. "You've been overworking yourself, I can tell. I'm here to fix that." Mercedes wiggles the package in her hands, and Ingrid knows it's her chocolate chip cookies, the ones Ingrid loves.

"I'm not overworking myself," she says, and she can hear how hollow it sounds.

"Sure, sure. Now, are you going to let me in?"

Ingrid has a choice, but in truth, she has no choice at all. Mercedes will leave if she asks it, probably hurt and confused, and then the void will close in. Or else she can let her in, and once she leaves, the void will take her.

She was so careful, too.

"Come on in," Ingrid says, because she's weak, and leans back.

Mercedes makes her way to the kitchen, and giggles, "Oh! Someone's been cleaning," before putting the box on the counter and opening it. The smell of chocolate and sugar fill her house again.

Ingrid walks towards the saccharine air, and says, "You don't have to do this. I'm fine."

"Some cookies never hurt anyone," hums Mercedes.

Ingrid looks at the box. She can feel the warmth coming off them, and the chocolate melts, oozing over golden cookie. She reaches for one, and takes a bite. That vanishes, and then the second, and then the third.

Ingrid is on her fourth cookie when Mercedes reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Ingrid freezes at the touch, cookie half-bitten.

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

"'ave been."

"Mm." Mercedes clearly isn't buying it.

Ingrid chews, slowly.

"You deserve a break, you know that, right?" says Mercedes, now softly tracing the shell of her ear. "You've been doing so well, with your parents and the promotion. You don't need to constantly be proving yourself, sweetheart...it's okay to just rest, sometimes."

When she swallows, the cookie globs down her dry throat. Ingrid looks at Mercedes, at her understanding smile and her kind eyes, and basks under her warm touch. In ordinary circumstances, Mercedes would be dead-on. Ingrid realises, with a mirthless twinge, that this is the first time Mercedes hasn't seen right through her.

So Ingrid can go along with it. Cookies means cuddling up in her bed, watching something silly on her laptop, and kissing the length of Mercedes' next when she gets a chance. In the afterglow, Mercedes would dust off the crumbs from her sheets, and then cuddle and float alongside her, until either falls asleep. There's a pattern established without her trying, and Ingrid knows the motions enough to follow through, unthinking.

But there is also a proper way of doing things, and Ingrid has to do what's right.

Unwillingly, her lips part to say, "Can we talk?"

Ingrid can't look at Mercedes when she says, "Of course. Is everything alright?"

Ingrid puts down the half-eaten cookie and walks to her room. She can hear Mercedes following her, closing the door behind them, and then staying back.

"Ingrid, are you okay?"

She rubs the spot on her ear that Mercedes had touched before, and is grateful that her palm hides Mercedes from her. Ingrid nods, and then gestures to her bed weakly. Mercedes doesn't sit, and Ingrid can feel the anxiousness build in her legs as she paces the length of her room.

Ingrid isn't stupid. She knows the words, she knows how to say them. But Ingrid is stupid, and she doesn't want to say them. So she waits, for what, she doesn't know.

"Did I overstep by coming over?"

That seems to be it, and it snaps out of her, "I saw you at the orphanage the other day. With Lorenz."

There's a silence. Ingrid doesn't dare look at Mercedes, but now broached, something has to be done.

"Are you going to accept?"

"I...yes. My father thinks it's for the best."

"Okay." And now that Ingrid knows, she also knows what has to be done. The steps are clear, and she just needs to take them. "Okay."

Another silence, where Mercedes walks closer to her, hands reaching for her face. Ingrid takes a quick step back, and Mercedes stills. There's a trembling moment of uncertainty, before her hands fall to her side.

"We need to stop."

The words hurt more than she expects them to. There's a smack in her gut that reverberates to her chest and rattles her teeth unpleasantly. It's the truth, however, no matter how it makes her stomach turn.

"It's not right," manages Ingrid, before clamping her mouth shut.

Her knuckles hurt from how hard she's clasping them, but she can't let it loose now, lest it whips and lashes the closest thing to her. Ingrid hears her bed creak, and knows Mercedes is sitting down, but she still can't look at her.

"Is that what you want?" asks Mercedes softly, after a long silence.

Ingrid wants the exact opposite. Ingrid wants to become the knight in the documentary she watched the other day and duel Lorenz until she's the last one standing, and whisk Mercedes away all for herself. Riding into the sunset, a soft kiss as they disappear into the horizon, no one else around.

Her father had always laughed at her fascination for fantasy, and she's agreeing with him at last. He should be so proud.

"It's the right thing to do," she murmurs. "You...You can't be seen with someone else, especially now."

"Oh," whispers Mercedes, and Ingrid's jaw begins to hurt from the force with which she grates her teeth together. "Ingrid, I'm--"

"It's not your fault," blurts Ingrid, and that's the truth. They don't have their future in their hands, no matter what battles they win. "I understand. Believe me, I do. And so it's better this way."

"Not of that means you're hurt, Ingrid."

The room is cold, so cold. Ingrid can feel the tears prickling at the edges of her eyes. She can't let Mercedes see them.

"I'll be fine." Ingrid will go to work tomorrow and do something until she's fine. But there's a dull gnawing in her chest, when she thinks of what Mercedes will do. "Will you be okay?"

"Oh, Ingrid." And there's something wet in the way Mercedes laughs. "There's no need to worry about me."

Ingrid looks up then, but now it's Mercedes who is looking away from her, focusing on the fingers on her lap.

Ingrid knows she's lying. Ingrid knows that Mercedes is lying. And Ingrid knows, with an alarming clarity, that they both know the other is lying. A white lie is fine if it keeps someone happy, but Ingrid can feel the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

"I was going to tell you, that day." Ingrid's throat works through the words like sandpaper. "At the orphanage, I was going to tell you that I…"

Would honestly make her feel better, or would it break the dam and raze everything before it? Ingrid is at the edge, and the cliffside is dark. Mercedes' torso and head is still twisted away from her, and Ingrid realises that Mercedes is shaking.

"Why didn't you tell me about the proposal?" The words sound weaker and more hurt than she expects.

A moment, and Mercedes says, "I thought it was for the best. You...You were so happy that day. My father was happy. And I was…with you, I was…so happy."

The realisation makes Ingrid sink to her knees at Mercedes' feet. The hollow in her chest aches, whimpers, throbs, and she can do no more than whisper, pleadingly, "Mercedes."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," says Mercedes, tilting her head back, and Ingrid sees the wet lines on her cheeks. "It was supposed to be a distraction, until my father told me that it…it was time. But then you came along, and…" Mercedes laughs again, wet and thick. "You're a very difficult one, you know."

Mercedes brings up a trembling hand to wipe away at her tears, still looking at the ceiling. The emptiness starts to warp and twist in her chest, her throat stuck and tight. Desperation licks at the edges, before razing across.

"We can do something," she begs, placing her hands on Mercedes' knees. "We have to be able to do something. Maybe you can tell your father that the orphanage still needs attention. Or else...or else maybe...maybe you could--"

Mercedes looks at her then, her lips twisted into a bastardisation of a smile, tears spilling down her cheeks, and she says, "I'm out of time, Ingrid."

"No!" Ingrid bows her head to rest on her knuckles. She can fix this, she has to fix this, she needs to fix this. "No, there has to be a way… I just need...need to think, and we can come up with a strategy--"

"No, Ingrid." Mercedes touches her then, running delicate fingers through her hair gently. Ingrid can feel her warm breath as she rests her head against Ingrid's, and she breathes, "I can't."

Everything stills for a moment, and the words sink in with enough force to break the dam. Ingrid can feel her tears slip down her knuckles and fall onto Mercedes' lap, and the sobs make her body shake and tremble. She was so close, but she still failed, because she was too dumb and blind and stubborn, and now they can't fight anymore.

"It's okay. Hush, my sweetheart," says Mercedes, voice breaking with her tears. "It's okay."

"It's not," whimpers Ingrid into her skirt. "It's not okay."

Mercedes can't say anything to that, so she lets herself lean against Ingrid, as their bodies shake and heave through the wave. Ingrid isn't sure how long they sit like that, hunched together. Her knees and throat begin to hurt, but she ignores it, fearing shifting away from Mercedes' lap. She hasn't stopped stroking Ingrid's hair, and Ingrid wants her to stay like that.

But things can't stay like that, and so Ingrid leans up, and catches Mercedes' eyes, watery and weak. A fresh wave floods her eyes when Mercedes braves another smile, and Ingrid rasps, "What do I do now?"

"Well," whispers Mercedes, brushing back Ingrid's bangs. "You need to drink some water," and her voice begins to tremble, "and eat some food, and...and rest."

Ingrid watches the tears form in her eyes, and says, "And you?"

"I'll--" Mercedes swallows. "I'll take my things, and I'll...I'll go back home."

That sad smile hasn't left her lips, making Ingrid clench the fabric of her skirt. "Is that what you want?"

Mercedes' lower lip begins to tremble.

"Tell me what you want," says Ingrid, softly. "Please."

Beautiful lips part, shaping words that don't have any sounds, and Ingrid waits. A tear slips down her cheek, throat tight and trembling, and Ingrid waits.

"You," says Mercedes, hushed. "One last time."

Ingrid can give her that, at least.

She rises, and straddles Mercedes. Delicate thumbs touch Ingrid's cheeks and wipe away the tears that lie there, and Ingrid does the same, and then some more, until her thumbs raze from the softness of her skin.

Mercedes pulls her closer, and their lips meet. When her full lips slide against hers, Ingrid wonders, with a pang, if this kiss would be the last one, or if it would be the next one. She grabs her shoulders and pulls her close, kissing her harder and firmer, and Mercedes matches her desperation, until they part, out of breath.

Ingrid can't stay away. She leans in again, and sucks on her bottom lip for a moment, and Mercedes lets her slip in her tongue, tasting her, feeling her, melding into her.

She turns her head and kisses her again, the swell in her chest threatening to break, and Mercedes whimpers a soft groan under her. They part, panting, but Ingrid pulls her back again, for one more kiss.

"Ingrid," gasps Mercedes when they part. Her chest is rising and falling with exertion, and Ingrid leans forward to press a kiss to her jaw, salty with tears, and press a kiss to her neck, sweet under her lips. Her lips automatically catch the spot behind Mercedes' ear, and sucks at the soft skin. It never fails to make Mercedes sigh and tremble in her arms, she knows this.

Her teeth graze against soft skin, and Mercedes gasps again, desperately tugging at her hair and thigh, and Ingrid sucks and licks and bites, until Mercedes moans, the softest, sweetest sound.

Ingrid pulls back, and wordlessly, they shuffle backwards on the bed. Mercedes catches her gaze, and there's something pleading in them, so Ingrid cups her cheeks and kisses her again, soft and slow, smooth skin melting and fusing, parting, fusing and melding, parting. Mercedes tugs at her shirt, and Ingrid pulls it off in one smooth action, and then clips away her bra.

Delicate fingers trace her skin, starting from her stomach, gently following the curves of her muscles upwards, to the undersides of her breasts, and then between them to ghost over her shoulder, before sliding down her arms and thread through Ingrid's hands. Ingrid shudders as Mercedes' eyes follow the movements, heavier as she touches more of Ingrid, and tugs her hands so that they kiss again.

Ingrid squeezes her hands, once, and then slips out her fingers to slip around the buttons of her blouse. Cloth slips off creamy skin, and Ingrid notices the dot of a mole on her shoulder. She bows her head and kisses it once, twice.

"Ingrid," whispers Mercedes, her voice breaking. Ingrid closes her eyes, lips still pressed against the mole, as Mercedes' arms circle her waist and hold her close. "My sweetheart."

Blinking back the tears in her eyes, Ingrid presses hard kisses along Mercedes' shoulder and to her neck, hands trailing down her back to unclasp her bra. Mercedes shimmies out of her bra, and Ingrid closes her lips against her neck, wanting to mark the soft skin there. A soft gasp, as Ingrid drags her hands from her back to her front, to tease the sensitive skin under her breasts, before reaching up to hold them in full.

Ingrid pulls back as she traces a nipple and then pinches it. Mercedes arches, and it's easy to guide her back to rest on the pillows, easier still to mark her chest until her mouth reaches her breasts. Ingrid opens her mouth to swallow a stiff peak into her mouth, the flesh firm and warm under her lips. Her tongue trails over the tip, slow to memorise, and Ingrid sucks, to preserve the sensation of Mercedes' arching into her, hands in her hair, soft cry of her name on her lips.

Her mouth trails lower, to the fleshy expanse of her stomach, pooling and plush under fingers. Ingrid traces up the soft swell of her hips, and kisses down the trembling plains of her stomach, dragging her tongue up to tease out the sweetest moans and shakiest gasps.

Fingers catch her skirt, and find the hook on the side, pulling it away along with her underwear. Ingrid pulls back on her haunches to admire, to imprint the image of Mercedes, thighs spread for her, revealing the slickness of her slit, the tremble of her stomach, and the rise and fall of her breasts. But Ingrid looks up further, and notices the way Mercedes looks at her, adoring and wanting, lips parted and pleading, so she crawls forward to kiss her again.

Ingrid wonders how long Mercedes has been looking at her with longing, and not hunger, wonders how blind she had been to miss it, now that it filled her with a heady sorrow.

When they part, Ingrid stays close to her lips, and closes her eyes, breathing in Mercedes' breath. Mercedes does nothing to rush her, holding her close and breathing in sync with her, breaths hitched from tears and desire.

Then she forces herself to move downwards, to the splay of her thighs and the shine of her arousal, and Ingrid thinks of worship, the eve before the Day of Judgement.

Lowering herself until Mercedes' legs slip over her shoulders and nothing else matters but the marks she makes on her thighs and the stutter of her hips, Ingrid licks her lips at the want between her legs. Her folds glisten, and so Ingrid dips her tongue between them, dragging a long, slow line, until the top, the motion eliciting a long, slow moan from Mercedes, and a sharp gasp when Ingrid places an open-mouthed kiss to her clit.

Sweet and spiced, thick and sticky, Ingrid takes her fill of Mercedes arousal, a hunger unlike the norm overriding her senses. Ingrid licks her folds once more, lips catching the flesh and tickling and massaging, and Mercedes snakes down a hand to curl into her hair. Ingrid closes her eyes, a flood of desire racing through her limbs, and lets the rush direct her back into Mercedes.

Pressing her tongue flat against her pussy, Ingrid licks flat lines and tight circles, before slipping her tongue into her plush, molten warmth, and Mercedes cries out for her, her voice high and tremulous and trembling. Ingrid lets her need guide her, as her hand yanks and tugs her in and out, before slipping out with a gasp. Ingrid engulfs her clit with her tongue, and pushes a finger into her cunt.

As the finger curls, she sucks, and when it flattens, she releases. Mercedes is bucking and trembling into her face, moans and gasps filling her bedroom. Ingrid slips in another finger with little resistance, and repeats the motion.

The pitching insistence of her moans, and the quivering need of her thighs tells Ingrid that she should hurry, but she doesn't want to. Ingrid pumps and curls her fingers with agonising sloth, sucking and kissing her clit softly, loving the feel and taste and tremble of delicate skin.

It's only when Mercedes' moans become broken and disjointed does she speed up, and, selfishly, Ingrid wants Mercedes to be full of her, to have the sensation of her fingers fucking her hard and fast, so she adds another finger and picks up the pace, tongue lapping and slipping and sucking with the quickening pumps of her hand.

When Mercedes comes, Ingrid closes her eyes and lets the waves of her moans wash over her. Trembling, quavering and high, hoarse and deep with release, her voice is beautiful, Ingrid thinks. So beautiful, as she continues to cry out as Ingrid leads her down, as gently as she can, from the crests, until her thighs go limp.

Ingrid pulls away and slowly as she can, but the hunger rages inside her, so she slips her fingers into her mouth and licks, wishing the taste stays. Mercedes watches her, and then reaches out for her, so Ingrid obliges, and meets her hot mouth again, slow and sensuous, as her tongue lazily flicks and tickles her own.

It's not the last kiss yet, she thinks, and so she dips back in for another.

Mercedes eases her around until she's the one on top now. Hands tug at her pants with insistence, and Ingrid is naked for her, but Mercedes doesn't touch her, not yet. Several moments, filled with Mercedes soft breathing and her broken breaths, where she just watches, blue eyes drinking in the sight of her, longing and wanting.

Finally, she touches her, starting with the sensitive muscles on her stomach, soft, senseless patterns that tease out ragged breaths from Ingrid. Mercedes' lips catch her chest, and then part to suck, before trailing upwards, to her neck. Ingrid moans as she sucks and nibbles and bites the skin, insistent in her marking of Ingrid, and Ingrid lets her.

All of Ingrid is her to take, and Mercedes knows this, in the slow way she fondles her breasts and twists her nipples, mouth still pressed firmly against her neck. Ingrid wants her to take more, as much as she'd want.

Her lips move to kiss a pattern on her shoulders, before biting, teeth sinking into her skin and letting a satisfied sigh escape from her lips. Mercedes drags her tongue, hot and wet, along the marks, and flicks her earlobe. Her mouth closes around the shell, and her hands continue to trace the trembling muscles of her torso, slipping just low enough, before sliding back up, curious, canting.

"Mercedes," whimpers Ingrid, and Mercedes shudders a sigh against her ear. "Mercedes," she repeats, and their lips meet again, desperate and sloppy. When they part, Ingrid cups her face, and Mercedes smiles, sad and solemn, again. Ingrid pulls her back, it's not yet the last kiss.

She breaks the kiss, and trails searing bites and molten suckles down her chest and to Ingrid's breasts. The hot, molten warmth of her mouth curls Ingrid's back into the plush, pulsing warmth of Mercedes' body, each rake of her teeth and flick of her tongue shooting through down her spine and settling in the warmth between her legs.

When Mercedes releases her breasts, Ingrid can feel the pulsating warmth of the marks she's left there, and looks at her pleadingly. Mercedes smiles and kisses her again, fingers dipping at last to tease at her slick folds.

Ingrid accepts a finger with a shuddering moan, and Mercedes slips in another immediately. The stretch sends sparks under her eyelids, and Ingrid gasps and sighs Mercedes' name. They curl, and then hold.

Mercedes presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and Ingrid's eyes flutter open. There's a fragile intensity in the way Mercedes looks at her, and Ingrid tries to part her trembling lips to say something.

Then her fingers are pumping in and out of her, curling when fully in before being pulled out. Hot, wet bursts from her pussy travel as pulsing waves down her legs and up her chest. Mercedes is still watching her, so Ingrid cries, "M-Mercedes!"

A blue-hot flame ignites her eyes then, and her thumb twists to catch her clit. Sparks follow the waves of pleasure coursing through her body, but Ingrid can only watch Mercedes watch her, letting the strangled cries and broken wails of her name slip off her lips.

"Mer-Mercedes," moans Ingrid, when she picks up the pace, fucking her furiously and feverently, fingers woking in tandem with the speedy beating of her heart. Delicate, gentle fingers, which cup her face and stroke her hair, rough, demanding fingers, as they slick in and out of her cunt as they are now, conjuring sparks from the tips of her toes to the base of her throat, trembling and crackling through every inch of skin in between.

Ingrid can feel it build, somewhere deep in her pussy, can hear it in the broken cries for the woman on top of her, can sense it from where her hand meets her vagina with speed. Desperate tendrils of pleasure lick and flick against her cunt, carrying through her bones and her muscles, tensing, winding, tightening--

"Oh, oh, Mercedes, I'm--ah! Mercedes, Mercedes, please--"

She leans her forehead against Ingrid's, and whispers, "Come for me, my sweetheart."

And Ingrid does, toes curling, tremors razing her body from her toes to her skull, and sparks exploding beneath her skin and eyelids, melting into currents racing down her spine and coarsing through her blood. Ingrid cries out for Mercedes the whole time, chanting her name like a prayer on the lips of the damned, as the blazing rush of desire fuses into her flesh, and settles as a buzzing tingle on the hairs of her skin.

"Mercedes," rasps Ingrid, and her lips are covering hers, sliding and guiding her down in tandem with her hands, easing her back onto the pillows gently and softly. Her hand pulls away, and her lips part, and the anxiety rushes through Ingrid's bones immediately.

"Mercedes, Mercedes--"

"--hush, Ingrid--"

"--Mercedes, I-I--"

"--shh," breathes Mercedes, against her lips. "I know, my sweetheart. I know."

Mercedes kisses her then, achingly knowing and devastatingly sweet, lips swollen with desire and pink with want, tongue amorous and loving against her own. Ingrid feels the tears sliding down her temples, and can do little more than wind her fingers through Mercedes' hair and hold her closer. Mercedes follows willingly, and Ingrid tries to remember the shape and movements of her mouth against hers.

Her body collapses on top of Ingrid, head tucked into her neck, hands slipping under her awkwardly to grasp at her shoulders. Ingrid's heart races, and she still grips her hair and shoulders, pulling her impossibly closer. There's nothing but the combined movements of their breathing, the soft plush of Mercedes' curves against her skin, and the wetness of her tears against Ingrid's aching, trembling chest.

They stay like that, for a long time.

But when Mercedes pulls away, her head tilted away from her, Ingrid thinks it's not long enough. The soft warmth of her body peels away from her skin, bit by bit, until Mercedes sits on the edge of the bed, bending down to gather her clothes scattered around the room.

Ingrid watches, with an increasing tightness in her chest, as she slips back into each piece slowly, until she's standing up to fasten her skirt. Her hands fall to her side, but she stays still, back turned to Ingrid.

Ingrid slides towards her, rolling onto her knees, and whispers, pleadingly, "Mercie…"

Blue eyes catch hers then, and there's a similar desperation in them. They reach out at the same time -- Ingrid towards soft cheeks, and gentle fingers to her shoulders.

When they kiss, Ingrid knows it's the last one.

Unwilling, they part, and Mercedes presses her forehead to Ingrid's, reverent and pious, before whispering, "Goodbye, my sweetheart."

And then the warmth is gone, door clicking behind her, and Ingrid is left in the cold.

Too late, Ingrid whispers, "Goodbye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waIT IM GOING SOMEWHERE WITH THIS


	10. Choose the Goddess' Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does she need? What does she want?
> 
> She had wanted Mercedes, wanted to kiss her sweetly and call to her sweeter, but she can’t have that. Mercedes, with her soft kindness and plush warmth, gentle kisses and sweet sighs. The world was pink when she was around, kinder in her company, and now she only had hurt.
> 
> There is a Mercedes-shaped void in her, and Ingrid had known that the world was made of harsh angles, but she still cut herself on the sharp edges of her want.

Ingrid wakes up the next day, puts on her uniform, makes breakfast, and goes to work.

There’s something comforting about the void, the way the darkness blinds her thoughts and numbs her emotions. Ingrid fumbles through the dark for cups of coffee and files of papers, eyes focused on the thing in front of her, and not on the shapes around her.

Everything moves slower, and her limbs feel heavier.

She just needs to focus, and let the void drown out everything else, and she’ll be fine. Ingrid needs to brave a few more days of moving underwater. The void just needs its fill of her, and then everything will pass.

Her daily routine comes in handy. When her days have strict schedules of home to work to the gym to home again, her mind has little else to think of, no dangerous spaces to wander. Ingrid is safe as long as she moves one heavy foot in front of the other, and keeps going.

Folders hide her eyes from Sylvain and Felix at work, bowls hide her from Ashe at home. Simple messages keep Dorothea at bay, and Dimitri is happy as long as she can plaster something like a smile on her lips.

Ingrid just needs to wait it out, and then she’ll be fine.

-

She knew that the world was made of hard angles and sharp points, and yet, Ingrid let herself believe otherwise.

The papers have sharp edges, the folders are rough in her hands. Messages have such shrill ringtones, Ingrid thinks, and she can’t bring herself to open them and read what they say. Food tastes delicious, as usual, but when the meal is gone, there’s nothing but a cold, heavy bowl.

Days crawl slowly, and Ingrid loses track. Mornings becomes afternoons, and afternoons just drag on. Ingrid blinks, and then it is morning again, blinks, and then it’s another evening. And evenings like this are the worst, when her mind has nothing to latch onto, and the minutes tick on, torturously slow and unendingly cruel.

Ingrid pours her dinner into a bowl, and the sharp clatter of the spoon against the side makes her wince. The kitchen, with its yellow-white light and many edges and corners, is a dangerous place to be, when there are memories of soft dough and softer hips, so she tries to scurry back to her room as fast as she can.

“Ingrid?” It’s Ashe, head peeping over the sofa.

“Yeah?”

“Um…are you heading to bed?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty tired. I’ll…I’ll catch you tomorrow, Ashe.”

His gaze flickers to the bowl, and then to her face. There’s a worried smile on his face when he says, “Okay. Sleep well, Ingrid.”

“Goodnight, Ashe.”

The door closes behind her, and she lets loose a nervous breath. There’s clutter everywhere – clothes flung across the bed, drawers left half-open, closet doors blocking smooth process across the room, and sheets trailing onto the floor. There’s no light in her room save for the bright blue screen of her laptop, and she scrambles under the covers as soon as she can, holding the warm bowl against her chest and pressing play.

It’s easier to fall asleep when her bedroom is unrecognisable.

-

Its 11 am on a work day, and Ingrid knows she’s lost control.

She’s just woken up, body aching and begging to return to the cold sheets, and there’s something running across her chest over and over and over again, sharp and dreadful. Ingrid feels fourteen years old again.

With trembling hands and stuttering breaths, she sends Gilbert a message. She hunches over the screen, unblinking, unthinking, breathing heavily. As soon as she receives her response, Ingrid flings the phone away from her and dives under the sheets, mind begging and screaming and straining from the exertion.

This is the worst part of it all, but she’s seen it once before. She can do it again, as long as she stays under the sheets and away from anything else. Ashe has left for work, and she’s free to go get food, but she needs more time.

Five meal trips later, there’s a knock on her bedroom door.

“Ingrid?” It’s Sylvain. He can’t be here. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

She’s sick, she remembers. Ingrid opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Ingrid? Are you okay?” The door rattles as Sylvain pushes against it.

“I-I’m fine!”

“Then open the door, dumbass.”

“Leave me alone.” She needs more time.

A beat, and Sylvain says, “Ashe says you haven’t been eating properly.”

There’s a cold bowl sitting on her bedside stand.

“You know I’ve done this once before with you, right? I can do it again.” Her door creaks, and she knows Sylvain is leaning against it. “I’m a very insistent man, Ingrid. It’s what the ladies want from me, after all.”

Ingrid can’t respond. She had been fourteen and Sylvain had been sixteen, whispering reassurances to her father and mother that she had heard through the door. Sylvain had slipped idle chatter and meaningless anecdotes through the cracks of the door, children’s bargaining chips against loss.

And this time too, he says, “Fe and Dima have been trying to solve that robbery case for the last two days. It doesn’t make any sense. All we have is a white van -- no plates, no CCTV footage, no reliable account except for the owner. Felix thinks that it’s the owner of the store next door, and Dimitri…well, Dima thinks it’s a family misunderstanding, even though we brought in the son for questioning the other day. What do you think it is, Ingrid?”

Sylvain had asked her to open the door, just for a little while, just for a meal, and then he would go away, he had said. Ingrid shivers, pulling her blanket around her.

“…and so I told Felix that we couldn’t just arrest someone with no evidence and bluff until he says something, but will Fe ever listen? Goddess, Gilbert was _pissed_. The only reason he hasn’t suspended Felix is because Dimitri shouldered some of the blame.”

Ingrid thinks of how it had hurt before, and how it hurts now, and she wants to laugh, or cry, or scream.

“Anyway,” sighs Sylvain. “We need you back at the precinct. It’s a mess without you there.”

Ingrid can’t respond. This is the worst part, and Sylvain has to leave her alone to deal with it.

A sigh from the other side. “What can I do, Ingrid?”

What does she need? What does she want? Ingrid doesn’t remember how or when she had stepped out of her room after Glenn had passed. The darkness, after it feasted on her, slips past like a dark cloud, and then the sun shines. How had it stopped, the last time?

Sylvain is still outside her door.

It had never ached like this.

Her sheets slide onto the floor as she rolls out of bed and wanders to the door. Ingrid twists the handle, and squints as the afternoon light breaks into her room. Sylvain straightens, and is searching for her eyes, but she can’t meet them now.

“You look like shit,” greets Sylvain.

She needs more time, but it’s the smell of his stupidly manly cologne that breaks the dam.

Ingrid presses into his chest as the tears begin to tumble and fall from her cheeks, and Sylvain hugs her, strong and protective, heavy hand on her head. The void takes and takes and takes, and tears only act as fuel to the fire, but Ingrid does not have an alternative, does not know what she wants.

She had wanted Mercedes, wanted to kiss her sweetly and call to her sweeter, but she can’t have that. Mercedes, with her soft kindness and plush warmth, gentle kisses and sweet sighs. The world was pink when she was around, kinder in her company, and now she only had hurt.

Mercedes had filled the void with her twinkling eyes and teasing laughter, filled Ingrid with cinnamon-flavoured possibilities until she was bursting.

Nothing is left now but heaving sobs and rasping cries, even though Ingrid had told herself never again, not after Glenn. Dreams are dear when her eyes are shut and delicious when she lets herself sample a taste, but destructive when she grips them close and lets herself want, stupidly, so very stupidly. She had wanted, between gasps and sighs, ovens with rhubarb pie and frames of painted friends and kisses in every room.

“I don’t know what to do,” says Ingrid.

There is a Mercedes-shaped void in her, and Ingrid had known that the world was made of harsh angles, but she still cut herself on the sharp edges of her want.

“How do I make it stop?” Ingrid hates crying, but the tears continue to fall as she looks up at Sylvain.

“I... Okay.” Sylvain’s eyes are wide as he pulls the door closed behind him, and seats her on the bed. Ingrid clings to him, because everything else has shattered, and Sylvain is in her room now. Rough thumbs graze her cheeks, but Ingrid knows he is trying.

She looks at him, silently pleading for an answer.

“I don’t know, Ingrid. I don’t know how to make it stop.” He huffs out a mirthless laugh. “I don’t have a solution for you because heck, if I found it, would I be here now? I’ve got three women texting me and I only know one of their names.”

“But it hurts.”

Sylvain’s eyes soften with understanding. “I know,” he says, and pulls her back in for a hug. “I know.”

“It hurts.”

“Yeah, it does.”

There’s nothing more either of them can do, nothing more she can say, so Ingrid leans against Sylvain and lets the rest of the tears fall, traitorous and terrible. Now with her acknowledgement, the void roars and rages, triumphing in its complete victory.

Ingrid lost.

Several aching minutes pass, until her sniffles ease into tired breaths. Sylvain pulls away slightly when Ingrid wipes her nose, and holds her cheek gently.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Ingrid remembers him cupping her cheeks like this when she was fourteen and he was sixteen, eyes just as warm and protective then, too.

“I know you want a perfect solution for this, but there’s no such thing. That’s not how shit works, and you and I both know that. So… Goddess, I’m the world’s largest hypocrite for saying this, but… Don’t run away from it. Don’t make the mistakes I made.”

Sylvain smiles, small and ashamed. Ingrid wants to say something, but the words are clogged in her throat.

“You’ve always been the one willing to put the hard work into things. Me? I’m just a slacker, so of course I’m stuck here. But I know you’ll pull yourself out of this.”

Ingrid doesn’t know how to respond, so she clears her throat with a wet noise and wipes her nose. There’s another silence, where Sylvain waits, protective and warm and in her room.

Ingrid says, “You need to figure out their names.”

“I know one of them is Clara. Or was it Clarrise? Oh, shit…”

There’s an easiness to his words that is comforting in its falseness, and Ingrid closes her eyes and leans against him. She’s twenty-four and he is twenty-six, and neither of them have any answers.

“Maybe Dorothea would know who they are. Fuck, one of them was super hot too, and it’s not Clara-slash-Clarisse. I need figure out her name. She’s hot in, like, a psycho way, you feel?”

“This had better not be a scene at the precinct again,” sniffs Ingrid.

Sylvain opens his mouth to say something, and then shuts it abruptly. “Can’t make any promises on that, sorry.”

Ingrid sighs, but she can feel the edges of her mouth lifting up. Sylvain chuckles, low.

“See? You’ll be alright.”

Ingrid sees his smug grin, and shoves him away. Her face and her hands are wet and clammy, so she wipes them down with the edge of her shirt.

“Fuck off,” says Ingrid, but they both know she means _thank you_.

-

It's been a week since, and Ingrid has managed to stick the pieces together, albeit clumsily.

Sylvain had told the other two, and so Dimitri had pulled her aside and reminded her that he would always be there for her, no matter what she needed. Add to his concerned looks the daily check-in messages that bordered on over-bearing, and Ingrid was beginning to understand why Felix always wanted to punch him. Speaking of Felix, her oldest friend had simply pressed his lips into a thin line when she had walked into the precinct, and growled, "Good, you're back. Now tell the Boar that I'm right about the robbery."

He means well, and Ingrid knows this because Felix and Sylvain have been ordering lunch from her favourite restaurants all week.

Dorothea is a more complicated affair. She wants to know thoughts and emotions and Ingrid cannot deal with any of those things now, so she had sent her a message that was clinical in its reportage of the events that had transpired. The only addendum was a request not to pry further, which she was upholding remarkably well so far.

Ingrid knows she means well too, because Dorothea has been sending her pictures every day from a horse page Ingrid likes, despite her absolute hatred for the animal.

So that leaves Ingrid floating between catastrophe and calm. Her days are filled with case files that can be solved easily, her nights are filled with thoughts which aren't as simple to sift through. Ingrid smarts and stings on some nights, and on the others, her heart thuds against her ribs numbly.

There's so much to tackle, Ingrid knows, because she looked into the void and saw how deep it goes. She'd be shoulder-deep in moments, and Ingrid does not want to be sucked in completely again, not without someone nearby to yank her out quickly. Ashe reminds her with soft smiles and nervous grins that he's there to help, but he doesn't understand how it takes from her, unyielding.

But Sylvain had told her not to run away from it, and she hates that he said that, because his voice skitters in her head when Ingrid tries to do exactly that, like now.

It's two in the morning, and she's lying on her side on the bed, stuffing her face with popcorn from a bag and watching something mindlessly entertaining. She's on season 4 of the animated series, but her mind has stopped registering the dancing lights since the finale of the previous season.

Ingrid sighs and closes her laptop, plunging herself and the popcorn into darkness.

She knows where the void goes, and she's frightened to follow. The slithering whispers and fragmented sentences echo through, ringing in her ears as they do now, refusing to stay at bay. Ingrid wishes she could let herself face them, but she's gotten so used to ignoring them that it's hard to go back.

There's a silence except for the crunch of popcorn. The boys and she had stuck their heads together on that robbery case, and that's when they had come up with the genius idea of checking the CCTV footage of the shops down the road. The robber would have been parked somewhere there to scout out the shop at least once, so she and Sylvain had gone back and spoken to the shopkeepers nearby. This had led to them finally catching the culprit -- it was neither the opposite store owner nor the owner's son, to Dimitri and Felix’s lament.

After all, thinks Ingrid, recalling Gilbert's voice with alarming clarity, no investigation is complete without revisiting the crime scene at least once.

Ingrid sighs. Throwing off the covers, she slips into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, patting around the darkness for her keys and wallet. After a moment, she grabs the bag of popcorn, and heads out of the apartment and into her car.

Even at 3 am, the church has its lights on, a yellow glow against dark purple.

She's alone, surrounded by coloured glass and bright lights. Religious places are still with their reverence, sweet-smelling with the promise of healing. Ingrid walks between wooden pews, footsteps echoing off high ceilings, until she stops.

Third row from the front, right at the middle. That's where they used to sit, Sylvain's family on one side and Felix's on the other. Sitting down unseats a rush of memories and emotions, and Ingrid tries to keep them at bay. A deep breath, hold, release.

The statue of the Goddess watches her. So the first memory then, is when she was thirteen, and had looked at the statue with reverence, because that was what she had been told. The Goddess had plans for her, her father had told her, plans that she had to follow.

At seventeen, she had understood those plans perfectly well. It was her duty to her family and her home. They had come to church again, this time after her birthday, and Ingrid remembers looking at the statue again, wondering if She had really drafted Ingrid's plan.

After Glenn, she had been too afraid to think that the Goddess did not exist, and she still is afraid, despite her mind screaming otherwise.

What did that leave, then? Who crafted the world, who makes it so that horses can run right after birth, who breathes life and purpose into their bodies and minds? And if it was by the white marble statue before her, what right did Ingrid have in defying that?

Ingrid is afraid, afraid to let her thoughts run, because once the scales tip, there is no going back. The problem with change, Ingrid has always known, is that very little can be done to go back to as things were. The second she had kissed Dorothea, she knew she would never kiss a man again. The second she walked into the precinct, she knew she would never go to her father's business again. The second Mercedes had whispered to her that she wasn't a pawn for another person's desires, she knew she could never...

So Ingrid is stuck, right on the precipice of change. Too stubborn to go back, too fearful to go forward. The road splits in front of her, and she can only choose one.

One has smooth pavements, easy for her to traverse from her father's preparation. Dotted with her parents' smiles and lit up with their love, Ingrid knows what happens next if she takes it. Someone has already put the milestones for her, the victories are highlighted as signboards, and the losses insignificant enough not to trip her up.

The other has a thick fog hanging over it, and Ingrid can't see anything past the entrance. There is something waiting for her on that road, but Ingrid does not know what it is, has never let herself know what it is.

What right does she have then, to pick the fog? What right does she have to defy the path lovingly paved and mapped for her? What right does she have to sit in a holy house and wonder if destiny can be controlled?

Ingrid's hands begin to shake, and she grips them into tight, trembling fists, leaning back and tilting her head away from the Goddess' gaze.

Her eyes slip shut, and against the darkness, she remembers how she wore skirts to the church.

Ingrid remembers how she wore skirts to the church, long and billowing and selected for her by her mother, and the emptiness she felt below her waist and till the soles of her feet. Ingrid remembers how she wore skirts to her father's office, black and tight and ready to rip at any uncomfortable movement, and the emptiness she felt in her heart as she looked at yearly progress reports. Ingrid remembers how she wore a skirt to Glenn's funeral, gauzy and rough and dragging through the dirt by his grave, and the emptiness in her mind as she realised that in his death, the part that whispered false desires and pre-set destinies died, too.

The void had existed in her for years, and only one path has her wearing skirts.

Ingrid shuffles out of the pew, the hairs on the back on her neck and along her arms crackling with discomfort. The sound of her boots on the floor is traitorously loud, giving away her position. And there is someone watching her, because she can feel their gaze on her back, appraising, challenging, threatening.

At the last pew, the sensation becomes unbearable, and she stops. Turns to see the statue, too far away to catch details, but Ingrid can imagine Her eyes on her. She had decided Ingrid's path, after all, and Her power was all-knowing, all-teaching, all-encompassing. Did Ingrid think she could reject that and forge her own?

_The point is to believe in that, silly, until it's a fact in your head._

Ingrid turns her back on the Goddess and leaves.


	11. Honor Thy Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ever since I was a kid, I did everything you and dad wanted me to. You wanted me to do well in school, wanted me to behave a certain way, wanted me to take up the business. I did my best to fulfil those wishes, because I didn't want to let you down. After all, the family's future depended on it, and I can't leave you or dad to suffer, not after everything you've done for me."
> 
> "Ingy, what do you mean?" Her mother sounds sad, small.
> 
> "You need to let me go. You need to let me decide my happiness. I've spent my entire life trying to fulfil your dreams that I let my own die."

There’s a trail on the other side of town that Ingrid loves to hike. While the reward is the city view at the top of the hill, Ingrid loves the feeling of being outdoors, sweat clinging to her skin and little dusty trails surrounded by greenery.

Conrad breathes in short bursts through his mouth as they jog side-by-side. They’ve loved to go hiking together ever since they were kids, but it’s been a long time since either of them got free to do a proper trail. She’s been busy with work, and Conrad with the company.

It’s around seven in the morning, and the sun hasn’t set in yet. The grass shivers in shades of yellow and light-green, and Ingrid spots birds scuttling out of the bushes, startled by the sound of their running shoes. It’s truly a lovely day.

Conrad turns to catch her eye, and smirks, coy. Ingrid frowns at him, which turns into a shout when he suddenly speeds up and takes off along the last few hundred meters of the hike. He’s young, but Ingrid has always been fast and in shape. She lets herself pick up some momentum before breaking into a sprint, and just beats him to the bench at the top of the hill.

Her little brother hunches on his ankles, panting heavily, and she braces herself on the bench, trying to catch her breath.

“Asshole,” she huffs, and he grins around the mouth of his water bottle.

“Good to see that you’re still in shape, for your age.”

“I’m three years older than you.”

“Three long, long years,” he sighs dramatically, slumping on the bench. Ingrid punches his shoulder forcefully, but sits next to him anyway.

They catch their breath, overlooking the city on a warm Sunday morning. Hundreds of houses cluttered against each other, broken by thin strips of asphalt. The occasional skyscraper leaps out of the ground and stretches to the clouds, white and sleepy against the blue sky. Ingrid exhales, long and slow.

“So,” says Conrad. “What’s the matter now?”

Ingrid blinks, turning to him. “What do you mean?”

His eyes twinkle when he says, “You always drag me along for a hike when you need to talk about something. So tell me Ingy, what’s the problem?”

“First of all,” sighs Ingrid, “that’s not true.”

“Not always, but significant enough,” grins Conrad.

Ingrid chooses to ignore him. “I…need your help.”

Perhaps it’s the heaviness in her voice, or it’s the way she doesn’t talk afterwards, that makes Conrad’s smile drop. He turns to her, attentively, and waits.

Ingrid’s brain crunches along the jumble of thoughts and emotions in her head, confused and cautious.

“Mom and Dad want me to get married by the end of this year,” she begins. “I don’t want that.”

Conrad hums.

“Not the way they want me to, at least. I…you know they’d never agree to it,” she says in a rush, because Conrad knows. “They’d never accept it now, especially with how things are. So I’m going to compromise, and tell them that I just don’t want to get married at all.”

Conrad leans back on the bench, and says, “They’re not going accept that easily though.”

“I know,” sighs Ingrid. “I have…a plan. Of sorts. I just need you to…to work on them a little. Convince them a little, here and there, because you know they’re not going to listen to me.” They both know that their parents won’t listen to Ingrid.

“A double agent,” says Conrad, bringing two fingers to his lips like a gun and blowing away non-existent smoke. “Agent double-oh-six-nine, reporting for duty.”

Ingrid stares at him, unamused. He laughs, short and loud, before turning back to the cityscape. The laughter dies out, and Conrad has a distant, sombre look as he thinks. Ingrid blinks, unused to the expression on her little brother’s face. She waits, and sits up straighter when he sighs and turns back to her.

“Fine,” he says. “But I have a condition.”

Ingrid nods, and waits for him to continue.

“I’ll help you however I can, but if I get hurt in the process, I’m out.”

There’s a fierce, defensive glint in his eye, something that’s new. Probably formed over the years Ingrid spent apart from him, when he did his growing up, fighting his own demons.

Ingrid’s throat catches, and she rasps, “Connie, I promise you won’t be hurt.”

He shrugs, dropping his gaze.

“Has…Before, have you…”

“You know how things are,” he mutters. “Between you, mom and dad, there was a lot of tempers at home. And you guys used to fight all the time, over things like this, in the past. Someone had to lighten up the mood, and make sure you guys would come down for dinner without biting each other’s heads off.”

Ingrid swallows against the small, shameful lump in her throat. She remembers all too well how the fights would be, when she was still living with her parents and Conrad was just a kid. Ingrid can admit that she gets her stubbornness from her father, and they both have strong personalities. Add to that her mother’s own quiet firmness, and there was a lot going on at their home, especially around marriage.

Now thinking about it, it had been Conrad who always diffused the tension, and always made them laugh together. Ingrid is grateful for that, but also remembers barking at him after particularly horrible fights, lashing out where she didn’t need to. A thick wedge of shame lodges itself in her chest.

“Connie, I’m sorry.”

A silence, where the grass rustles.

“I never meant to hurt you. You’ve always been the glue that holds us together, and I’m so grateful for that. And I know it’s probably too little, too late, but I am so, so sorry.”

Conrad shrugs. “At least you know, now.”

Ingrid nods. She reaches out to smooth down her brother’s unruly mop of hair, similar in colour to hers. Ingrid rests her hand at the back of his head, and he finally looks up to see her. There’s a trembling, shaky look of courage on his face.

“You’ve really grown up so much,” says Ingrid, softly. “But then again, I suppose you’ve had to. I promise you won’t get hurt this time, not if I have anything to do about it.”

Conrad smiles then, the look in his eye steeling. “Thank you. And don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

A terribly fond, affectionate rush of warmth swells in Ingrid’s heart.

“I’m so proud of you, Conrad,” she breathes.

A small smirk forms at the corner of his mouth.

Ingrid blinks.

The smug smile overtakes Conrad’s round face, and he says, “What was that? Didn’t catch you.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes and shoves him, hard enough to dislodge him from his spot on the bench.

“Shut it, Lemon Boy.”

“Whatever, Ingy and the Maiden of the Wind.”

The terrible childhood nicknames are cue for them to start fighting, but Ingrid can’t help her smile.

-

Sylvain had told her, back when they were little, that she had always been the one to huff ‘I told you so’ and cross her arms smugly. But this is the one time she had desperately hoped she was wrong. Alas, that wasn’t the case at all.

Ingrid had a plan – given her recent track record, she really didn’t know why she made them – and had decided to tip things into action. It had been a couple of months since…all of that stuff with Mercedes, and Ingrid was tired of sitting around and crying. She had hoped that doing things might make her feel better.

She had always been close to her father, and had decided to start the plan with him. Softly, gently, she tried to suggest that perhaps marriage wasn’t the best thing for her right now, but he wasn’t having any of it. Ingrid gets her stubbornness from her father, and it took everything in her not to explode and cause a scene.

Usually, he listens, careful and attentive, always looking out for her. But Ingrid thinks she’s all out of luck with him, especially after the talk about staying at the precinct. Add to that the fact that her father was upset at her for ‘dilly-dallying with the Gloucester proposal and losing out on a good match’, and he just wasn’t willing to listen to anything Ingrid said, no matter how gentle and cajoling she was.

Ingrid was right, and this is the first time she doesn’t have the energy to be smug about it. Sylvain would be shocked, she thinks, bitterly. Her father is a dead end, and Ingrid fights the urge to just walk into her house and yell at them until they listen to her.

But she doesn’t, not only because that would be counter-productive to her goal, but also because there had been some interesting new developments.

Her mother had been calling her, maybe twice or thrice a week, and they had been talking over the phone pretty regularly over the last month. It’s not that she isn’t close to her mother, quite the opposite. Her mother had always been a little distant, but Ingrid supposes that’s in comparison to the insistent overbearingness of her father.

What surprises Ingrid is the fact that her mother asks about her job, genuinely curious and listening, remembering things Ingrid had told her earlier, and always reminding her to stay safe.

For so long, she hadn’t let herself think of her job as something permanent. Her parents, thinking the same, hadn’t bothered to ask about her job. Now that he mother was asking, Ingrid found it difficult to keep her pride in check, but her mother didn’t seem to mind. She loves talking about it, and so she relishes the opportunity. Ingrid doesn’t question the change, welcome as it is.

“…and we’re hoping that will solve the case,” sighs Ingrid. The newest case, a string of robberies across the city, had been causing them all some trouble at the precinct.

Her mother hums, listening but not having much to share.

Ingrid swallows. “Thanks for asking me about work,” she says, nervous. She’s not used to talking about feelings with her parents. “It means a lot to me.”

“It’s no problem, Ingy. I’m happy that you’re happy,” she says.

_Then why do you insist on controlling me_ , she wants to say. _Why won’t you let me live my life as I want to._

Ingrid says none of this. There’s a long moment of silence, where she tries to quell the rush in her chest.

“You know something?” says her mother suddenly. “When we were younger, Laura and I ran a tailoring business together.”

“Really?” Ingrid asks, surprised. Laura is her mother’s oldest friend. “You mean the shop she has in town?”

Her mother laughs through the phone. “Yes, that’s the one. She and I started it together, before you were born.”

“Did you do all the sewing?”

“Yes. Laura handled the clients, and I handled the cloth, because you know me. I’m not so good with people.”

“That sounds amazing, Mom,” says Ingrid, smiling.

“We had so much fun. I used to take my sewing machine to your grandfather’s basement and spend the evenings sewing. You know Laura. She wanted to get our own shop and brand ourselves and start chains all across the city.”

“What happened?”

There’s a silence, and then her mother says, very quietly, “I got married to your father, and then you came along, and then I got busy with the house. You know how things are.”

Ingrid knows very well. “Do you want to go back?”

Her mother laughs. “I’m not sure. I’m quite old now. But watching you reminds me of how we were. We used to work for hours, and we did so well.”

“You should go back,” urges Ingrid. “Conrad and Dad can take care of themselves. You can go back.”

Her mother hums, softly. “Maybe. Taking care of you lot is my first responsibility. You’ll understand, once you get married.”

Doesn’t her mother see that Ingrid doesn’t want to live her life in regret, like her? Doesn’t she realise that she can do the right thing, and save Ingrid from the same trauma?

Ingrid closes her eyes, and lets out a soft, quiet breath. She tries to remember the scent of cinnamon buns, the soothing sensation of swirling sugar, and the melt of icing against her tongue.

“Not if it means letting go of my dreams,” she says, trying to keep her voice light.

Her mother huffs down the phone, and Ingrid doesn’t know if it’s one of annoyance or otherwise. She swiftly swerves the conversation to the business, how they did it, about their customers, and why her mother should go back. Ingrid tries to clamp down the words berating her mother to see the pattern in her ways.

It takes two rises for cinnamon rolls to taste good, and she needs to be patient.

-

For all of Ingrid’s planning and for all of her resolve, it’s not easy.

The guilt swallows her in waves, starting out at froth tickling her feel before she’s plunged into the deep, murky waters of her own shame. It leaves her raw and stinging when she talks to her parents, because she does have a hidden agenda, she’s doing all of this for a reason.

It’s for herself, but Ingrid wonders how good of a reason that is. Her parents have been nothing but kind to her. They have provided for her – delicious meals and warm rooms even when they could afford little else – and she wonders if this was the right way to repay them.

She’s not been the perfect daughter either, not by a long shot. She’s always been a little too rough, a little too tomboyish, a little too neutral in her faith. So then what did right does she have to ask them to be perfect parents, when she was not the perfect daughter?

Ingrid knows that she is not indebted to them for it, Ingrid knows that providing is their responsibility as parents, Ingrid knows that the guilt she feels is borne out of her own filial duty. But it’s hard, especially on days like today, when her mother laughs down the phone and her father cracks terrible jokes.

Dorothea sits next to her on the bed, licking strawberry ice cream off a spoon, as they watch a stupid rom-com that she’d never admit to enjoying in front of the boys. Ingrid had messaged Dorothea when the feelings began to swell and rush and get out of hand, and the brunette had landed up at her door with a bucket of fried chicken for Ingrid.

Her room smells terrible –fruity sweetness and greasy meat all at once. Ingrid resigns herself to the crumbs she’s going to find in the sheets tomorrow morning.

The couple on-screen kiss under the falling snow, and the happily ever after on the screen makes her heart twist, bitter and angry. It’s easy for them, to have their lovers close and their families closer. They get their picture perfect endings, while Ingrid has to dredge through the swamps of her guilt and fear and regret, possibly with no end.

Because Ingrid knows that this is not the end. If her parents acquiesce to her not getting married, then there is the topic of her sexuality. And that would be another battle, long and arduous, and Ingrid must sharpen herself again, to brave those waters.

“Oh, my Ingrid,” says Dorothea, twisting her face to her and wiping away the angry tears running down her cheeks. “Don’t cry.”

Ingrid is so tired of fighting.

“It’s not fair,” she says, because any more and the dam will crack.

Dorothea’s eyes crinkle with sad understanding. Ingrid looks down, trying to quell the bubbling emotions threatening to burst out.

It’s not,” she agrees. “It’s not fair that you and I have to fight for everything without a chance of winning. It’s not fair that other people have it easy, and that they get it all.”

Ingrid sniffs.

“But you’re trying, and I know it’s exhausting. Back when I lived on the streets, I thought that…that fighting was the only way to live. That even my next meal was going to be a fight, and if I didn’t win, I’d…”

“Dorothea,” whispers Ingrid, shocked. Dorothea sniffs out a smile.

“The point I’m trying to make, is that I know that it’s hard. Look at me now – I have a family and a girlfriend and friends who love me so much, and won’t ever leave me. Things get better, Ingrid. No matter how terrible it feels now, it’ll get better. And when you can’t remember that, I’m always here to remind you of it.”

Ingrid closes her eyes as Dorothea presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

“If it helps, the film bombed at the box office,” quips Dorothea drily.

Ingrid laughs, wet and sudden, and leans into Dorothea’s warmth.

-

Ingrid tries to keep an attentive expression on her face as Lorenz talks, but her mind is racing.

The man has been droning on and on about his family and his life to her for the last twenty minutes. He didn't even stop when their drinks arrived, and Ingrid isn't sure if he's stopped to take a breath. His cup of tea is definitely cold now, thinks Ingrid, blowing on her cup of coffee.

Her father had arranged for this meeting, as a follow-up to a proposal sent by Lorenz's family. Ingrid remembers just blinking at her father when he had told her, before accepting. Which had led to them sitting at this cafe together, trying to get to know each other more.

As part of her plan, she had met with two other men that her father had short-listed. The first had arrived at the meeting drunk, forcing Ingrid to drop him home. The second had been the son of another prominent politician in the city, with orange hair and kind eyes. They had spoken about horses, but had left with a cordial handshake and Ingrid hasn't messaged him since. While neither were terrible experiences, Ingrid still hates the process behind their meetings.

By doing this, Ingrid had wanted her father to think that she had at least tried, before she tells him that this isn't for her. Ingrid had been looking forward to never sitting through another uncomfortable coffee meeting set up by her parents ever again. But when he had told her about the proposal from the Gloucesters had suddenly opened up again, her curiosity overtook her sense.

Because wasn't the reason that Mercedes left her because she was accepting Lorenz's hand in marriage? What happened then, for Lorenz to be meeting her instead?

"--don't you think, Ingrid?" Lorenz looks at her expectantly.

Ingrid starts. "Ah, yes," she agrees quickly, unsure so as to what she was agreeing to.

"Yes, I thought that a woman like yourself would agree. It is high time that the laws include women's menstrual hygiene into their healthcare policies," says Lorenz, nodding happily. Ingrid doesn't want to know how the conversation shifted from haircare to menstrual hygiene, so she takes another big sip of her coffee. "But that's enough about me. You have been dreadfully quiet this whole time. Please, tell me something about yourself."

"Ah," Ingrid swallows scalding liquid. "I, uh…" Her throat burns.

"Perhaps your hobbies? Your passions?" prods Lorenz.

"Um, I like to read."

"A lovely enterprise," nods Lorenz.

Ingrid has never heard anyone call reading an enterprise.

"I, too, am fond of the occasional novel, though my tastes lean towards non-fiction."

"Oh, nice," says Ingrid, for lack of a better response.

There's a silence, where Lorenz hums and looks around, and Ingrid thinks of a proper way of asking him about Mercedes.

There's no delicate way of putting it, and Ingrid knows that this meeting wasn't going to go anywhere. She admits that it's incredibly low and selfish of her to be meeting Lorenz just to find out what happened between him and Mercedes. But if she doesn't ask, the curiosity would kill her, and she doesn't have the courage to ask Mercedes directly, yet.

The silence stretches on, long and awkward and stiff. Ingrid wonders how she's going to save the situation, now that so much time has passed.

Luckily for her, Lorenz breaks it with a self-suffering sigh and says, "Now, Ingrid, let us be frank with one another."

"Okay?"

"How interested are you in accepting this proposal?"

Ingrid's grip on the mug slips, and catches it quickly. "Uh...why do you ask?" she asks, to buy time.

Lorenz flicks back a long lock of his straight hair, looking peeved. "Of late, some proposals have been falling through despite both parties accepting. I do not wish to repeat the arduous process of finalising a marriage if it will simply be cancelled three weeks later," he huffs.

Ingrid blinks, and then realises that this is her chance.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," she begins. "I'm...I don't mean to pry, but…"

"Ah, it is a very sorry tale indeed," begins Lorenz, and Ingrid thanks every deity she recently forsake for this man loving the sound of his own voice. "I was engaged to be wed a few months ago, but the girl backed out from the arrangement in short notice. With no warning at all, mind you. The previous night, we had finalised the venue, and the next morning, I received a message from her that she was ending our alliance. Such shameful behaviour, from the pastor's daughter, no less."

"I'm sorry to hear that," manages Ingrid, her mind racing.

The timeline matches up. But what had happened between three months ago and now? What had changed? Was Mercie marrying someone else? Had something happened to her?

"Do you...know why? Why she did that, I mean."

"I don't have the slightest clue. It was very sudden, and when I asked her why, she simply said, 'I'm not doing this anymore', and then refused to elaborate."

Ingrid swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

"As though marrying me was such a terrible prospectus...Ingrid, are you alright?"

Ingrid knows her brain is racing, hopeful and wistful, but she doesn't stop it. She is tired of preparing for the bleakest possibilities, tired of her brain showing her how things might go wrong. Ingrid has spent the last three months fighting a battle that she still isn't sure if she will win.

She wants to believe, desperately, that Mercedes managed to get out.

"Ingrid?" She's startled out of her thoughts by the sensation of Lorenz touching her hand. "Are you alright, dear?"

Ingrid yanks her hand away. "Yeah, I-I'm fine. Um. I should probably tell you that I'm not interested," she says, wincing at her bluntness.

"Is it because of the previous proposal?" says Lorenz, rising from his chair and she clambers to her feet. "Ingrid, I can assure you that I am a gentlem--"

"Yeah, I'm sure you are," pacifies Ingrid, pushing her chair in. "I was never going to say yes. Um. It's not you, it's me."

Lorenz gapes at her, mouth hanging open.

"Sorry?" tries Ingrid, and then starts backing away. "I gotta go."

As she leaps into her car and starts the engine, Ingrid thinks that maybe she has a chance of getting out, too.

-

Her mother calls her that evening, and Ingrid can feel her hands trembling as she presses the phone to her ear.

"Hi, mom."

"Hello, Ingy. How did the meeting go? Your father said you messaged him."

Ingrid had, to tell him that she wasn't interested. "It went okay, mom. "

"Then why did you say you weren't interested?" There's a beat, and then her mother says, stern, "Are you being difficult on purpose?"

"No, mom. That's not it."

"Then what is it?"

Ingrid takes a deep breath. Holds it, feeling her lungs stretch. Lets it go, muscles loosening and easing. She thinks of cinnamon buns, soft and sweet and decadent.

"Mom, I'm going to be honest with you. Please, just...listen to me."

"Okay, Ingy."

"The meeting went well enough. And before that, with Ferdinand. That went well too. They're good people, mom, and I'm sure you'd tell me that I should get married to one of them."

Ingrid closes her eyes, and tries to shape the words in her head.

"But that's not what I want. You...You told me about your business, remember? It was something you gave up for us, and I'm so grateful for that. But there are some things I don't want to give up on, and my job is one of those things. You've heard how happy I am when I tell you about a successful case."

"I'm sure there will be someone who is okay with your work, darling."

"That's not the point," sighs Ingrid. "There are things that make me happy, and some things I don't want to compromise on. And marriage...that's not something that will make me happy, mom."

There's a silence, and Ingrid pushes on.

"Ever since I was a kid, I did everything you and dad wanted me to. You wanted me to do well in school, wanted me to behave a certain way, wanted me to take up the business. I did my best to fulfil those wishes, because I didn't want to let you down. After all, the family's future depended on it, and I can't leave you or dad to suffer, not after everything you've done for me."

"Ingy, what do you mean?" Her mother sounds sad, small. Tears rush to Ingrid's eyes. Her hands are shaking too much. She presses the speaker-phone button, and holds the phone close to her mouth.

"I'm saying that I want to live my life, to the fullest and happiest I can. Ever since I was fourteen, you told me I had to get married. But now, after years of fighting with myself, I realise...that's not for me, mom. I don't think it ever will. So you need to let me go. You need to let me decide my happiness. I've spent my entire life trying to fulfil your dreams that I let my own die."

There's a long silence. Ingrid lifts the corner of her shirt to wipe away the tears in her eyes. The room is absolutely silent, and the light from the phone screen is harsh and bright and static.

Her mother breaks it at last, and says, "We never meant for you to be unhappy, Ingy. We just thought...that this would be the best for you. For all of us."

"I know, mom. But I'm telling you that it isn't the best for me."

Her mother sighs, and it emerges as a rush of static from her phone. "I never wanted you to be unhappy, darling. I never meant to make you choose between us and your happiness."

Ingrid is silent.

"But it must have seemed like it to you, and I'm so sorry about that.”

Tears begin to slide down her cheeks and fall onto her lap. Ingrid tries to wipe them away, but more keep coming.

"I...I know what it feels, to let go of your happiness. I don't want you to feel that, Ingy. I don't want to put you in a position like that. So…" a beat, where her mother sucks in a breath. Ingrid holds hers, body trembling through tears. "So if you don't want to get married, I will support your decision."

Her sobs come out soft at first, little gasps of choked air, and then she breaks into wet heaves, cradling the phone in her hands. There's so much more to be done -- her father being the closest and biggest hurdle, and then then talks on her sexuality long down the line which will no doubt be just as painful, but…

"Ingy, don't cry," whispers her mother, and Ingrid can hear her tears. “I love you, baby.”

But she has this now, and it's a step. It's a huge step, and the pain that she never spoke about as a child ruffles out its feathers and launches into the sky, soaring and lifting, vanishing into the evening sunset.

"I love you too, mom."


	12. Love is patient, love is selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid rises and dusts off the dirt on her trousers, when she hears Mercedes say, “Thank you for coming.”
> 
> Ingrid braves a look at her at last, and her eyes are soft, smile softer. Her mind darts to the wall, hard stone and rough cement, and she wants to ask her what changed.
> 
> But she’s still a coward, so she says, “It’s no problem. Thanks for having me over. I…I know how much it means to them.”
> 
> The evening breeze grabs the _I know how much it means to you_ and runs away with it.

Ingrid had told Dorothea she was fine, but she's not.

Edelgard is having a birthday party in her massive condo, and so of course Dorothea had dragged Ingrid along, because to quote, "You have to see people who aren't suspected criminals". Ingrid had resigned herself to an evening of casual drinking, following which Dorothea would vanish with her girlfriend, allowing Ingrid to leave by midnight to get six hours of sleep. But that's not how things are turning out to be.

Ingrid knows she's being boorish by staring, but Mercedes has never looked so beautiful.

There's always been a grace to her that left Ingrid breathless, but her movements now carry a quiet sureness that holds Ingrid's gaze. Her laugh, high and light and like a morning breeze, is brighter, and Ingrid can almost taste the delight in her giggles when Hubert says something. Her chest aches at the sound.

"What's our plan," says Dorothea, sliding up to her suddenly.

Ingrid blinks.

"Are we mad? Do I need to start a fight? Or are we going cold shoulder, she-doesn't-even-exist?"

"Please don't start a fight," sighs Ingrid. "And no, just...just be normal. There's no need for any of...whatever you just said."

Dorothea purses her lips. "I'm not going to talk to her."

"Dorothea," sighs Ingrid again. "You don't need to do that for my sake. I know you two get along really well. I don't mind."

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm sure." This is the fourth time she's asking, but Ingrid appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

Something has changed, but Ingrid knows it isn't proper to pry. But by Sothis, does she want to. Lorenz's words ring loudly in her head.

Ingrid stamps it down, and tries to focus on the party. Dorothea, clinging onto Petra's arm, is teasing Caspar relentlessly on some inside joke. The redness in his face clashes horribly with his bright blue hair, and Ingrid notices that ercedes hasn't come with anyone.

"Here she is," says Petra jovially, when Edelgard approaches their little group. "Happy birthday, Edelgard."

Ingrid echoes the chorus of wishes, and Edelgard smiles and nods regally through it. Dorothea suddenly presses shot glasses into everyone’s hands.

"To Edelgard!" cheers Dorothea, and everyone in the room cheers with her.

When Ingrid brings the glass to her lips, she catches Mercedes looking at her. The shock of blue makes her choke, and Caspar thumps her back as she hacks up tequila.

When she regains her bearings, Mercedes isn't looking at her anymore. Ingrid chalks up the weakness in her limbs to the shot.

The party is casual – well, as casual as Edelgard can be – and Ingrid can't say she's having a bad time. She's always gotten along well with Caspar and Petra, both long-time friends and employees of Edelgard. Ingrid feels a little out of place between their familiar, playful banter, but they pull her into the conversation nonetheless, and Ingrid is grateful for it. Caspar drinks the way he talks, loud and fast and like he has something to prove, and keeps getting them shots.

Predictably, just when Ingrid's face feels hot and forming sentences takes longer than usual, Dorothea appears and drags Petra off to somewhere more...private. Caspar decides to check up on Linhardt, who is apparently asleep in one of the guest rooms.

Ingrid stumbles into the kitchen, realising she hasn't eaten dinner, and grins at the feast awaiting her. The island is covered with food, so she grabs a plate and heaps food onto it.

She's halfway through her plate when she hears a light, musical giggle.

"Hiding away and eating, are we?"

Ingrid whips around, and finds herself face-to-face with Mercedes. Arms folded, leaning on the doorframe, eyes shining and twinkling and teasing.

It takes her forever to chew and swallow the piece of chicken in her mouth, and she finally chokes out, "M-Mercedes.”

“Hello, Ingrid,” says Mercedes, smiling.

Goddess, have mercy, her smile. The tightness that clogs her chest is sudden and thick and heavy, and Ingrid drags her eyes to her plate, because looking at Mercedes for too long is dangerous.

“How is the food?”

“It’s—It’s delicious. Um,” and she stops, abruptly.

What does she say? How does she act? Mercedes has always been able to see right through her, and Ingrid doesn’t want her to, not now. Now, Ingrid wants to be the one looking through the softness and the sweetness, at her bitter memories of the last few months. She wants to demand for answers that might not be given to her.

So she swallows back the lump and says, “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes,” says Mercedes, and Ingrid hears her walking into the kitchen. “But I wanted a bit of desert, so I thought I'd sneak away and steal some.” She giggles, so softly, and says, “Looks like we both had the same idea, hm?”

Ingrid nods, trying to play it cool, trying to look up and meet Mercedes’ smile for anything more than a few moments, without the brightness burning up her throat. Mercedes is rummaging about for a plate and a spoon, and grants herself a generous slice of cake, smile still fixed on her face.

Dorothea carries her emotions on her sleeve, and so Ingrid can predict how to respond. Sylvain’s tells have been constant since they were children. Felix gets pricklier the close she gets to the truth. Mercedes, on the other hand, has always been hard to read.

But her throat is burning up with the words, so Ingrid says first, “How are you?”

Mercedes smiles at her spoon absently, and says, “I’m doing well.”

Their eyes meet, and Lorenz’s words ring in her ears, loudly, painfully.

“Really?” she says, throat constricting tightly, trying to save her from what was to come.

And it continues to quiver dangerously, as Mercedes’ smile stutters away and her eyebrows rise, sharp and defensive. But Ingrid holds her ground, lowering her plate onto the island as her hands grow weaker.

“Really,” says Mercedes, airy. “And what about you, Ingrid? How are you?”

She thinks of the darkness in her home, the chasm of her guilt, and the pain of her fights. She thinks of the tears and the laughter and the apologies that were a long time overdue. She thinks of telling her, that she tried it her way, and she’s made progress, kicking and screaming.

But something has her throat in a chokehold. “I’m doing well, too.”

Mercedes’ face tilts, because she knows. “Really?”

“Really,” Ingrid says, pointlessly.

A heavy silence settles between them, where Mercedes looks at her in that Goddess-forsaken way of hers, open and waiting and patient, and the trembling gets worse as every second drags by. Ingrid doesn’t want to back down, not when she can still reach forward and yank the answers out of Mercedes, answers of what changed, how it changed, and why she let it change.

But those answers aren’t hers to demand for, says a weak, tired voice in her mind, so Ingrid breaks the stalemate to restlessly prod at her food.

“How are the kids?”

“They’re doing great,” says Mercedes, and the tension dissipates, if only slightly. “We had a singing competition the other day, and Elsa really surprised us all. She sings so beautifully.” She breaks into a sudden giggle, remembering something. “Annie was judging, and she looked so upset when Elsa out-sung her.”

Ingrid is smiling, fond and uncontrollable, when she asks, “And what about the rest? Is Jules still asking a hundred questions at every turn?”

“Oh, of course she is. We got a bunch of books recently, and the library room is still under construction. So of course she found a book on anatomy, and now I have to give the birds and the bees talk to an eight-year-old who won’t be satisfied with a vague reply.”

Ingrid laughs at the image of the tiny girl pouting at Mercedes, unhappy with her answers and demanding more. “I can imagine.”

Mercedes eyes soften. “You always had a soft spot for her.”

She’s trapped by that sweet smile again, and Ingrid can feel every muscle in her body tighten, screaming to snap.

“They miss you,” says Mercedes, and then everything happens in slow motion – the uncertain glimmer in her eyes, the quiver in her lips as they part, and the snap of her jaw as she decides not to say anything more.

“They miss you,” she repeats hoarsely, pointlessly.

Because the words she doesn’t say shriek and scream in the silence between them, and the tightness in Ingrid’s chest finally breaks, breaks into a wide, yawning ache that rattles in her chest and trembles in her bones. She’s breathless and exhausted instantly, a crash after a sprint she never physically ran, and she wants desperately to break the surface for a gulp of air.

“Ah,” she says, because it’s the only way to breathe, “I… I miss them too.”

And Mercedes’ eyes shine when she looks at her then, something terribly soft flickering in them. She thrashes desperately in the warm blue waters as she tries to take one more breath, neck quivering, mind racing, words screaming, heart aching—

“Well,” breathes Mercedes, breaking eye-contact, “I suppose I’m keeping you, aren’t I?”

Ingrid watches as she cradles the plate in her arms, close and protective.

“I’ll let you enjoy your dinner in peace.”

Mercedes straightens, and her eyes are as calm as the surface of a lake. Whatever was there just moments ago has been lost, and Ingrid can no longer chase after it. So she watches, as Mercedes turns to leave.

“Mercedes,” she rasps, rough, raw.

She stills.

Ingrid wants to know, so badly that it hurts, why things changed after she left.

“You forgot your spoon.”

Mercedes turns to her, and Ingrid holds it out. Mercedes takes it, hand falling to her side, but not turning away. Ingrid watches the careful porcelain of her features, soft and firm all at once.

“You should come see them, sometime,” breathes Mercedes, and then she’s gone.

-

Conrad is about to throw out the trash and she’s drying the dishes when her father calls for her. Her brother shoots her a knowing look, and Ingrid knows what’s going to happen.

“Coming,” she says, dropping the rag in her hands.

Back to the study, and her father circles his desk with an intent that Ingrid has come to hate. Her throat is dry and her legs are heavy, and she knows what’s going to happen—

“The von Hevrings sent over a proposal for their son the other day,” he says, lifting an envelope from the top of his pile of papers. The letter is open, and she knows it has passed her father’s scrutiny. It’s her turn now, to find a way to reject it. “It’s for their eldest son, Linhardt.”

Ingrid swallows, throat raw and dry.

“Do you know him?”

“He’s one of Dorothea’s friends.”

Her father quirks an eyebrow at her.

“I—” _am pretty sure he and Caspar have been dating for the last seven years_ , “I’ve not spoken to him much.”

“They have a very large fishing business off the south coast,” says her father, which, translated, means that they have the money her family desperately wants. “He works with the Hresvelgs, but should be joining his father’s company soon.”

“Oh,” she breathes, because she doesn’t know what to say.

“Anyway, take a look at the proposal and let me know what you think,” says her father, like it’s a business transaction.

To him, it is.

The thought lodges firmly in her throat, and Ingrid looks at the envelope hanging off her father’s outstretched hand. She met three men, to get him off her back, but he hasn’t backed down, not even after she rejected all of them. She had been gentle and forgiving, giving the boys the credit they deserved and bringing up her issues in a fair way. Ingrid has been trying so hard to be soft, and there’s still no improvement.

When her staring goes on for too long, her father says, “What is it, Ingy?”

Ingrid tries to keep the frustration simmering in her chest at bay. She has to be gentle, she has to be patient. Her plan is working, and will keep working, as long as she doesn’t lose her temper.

“I’m not sure he wants to get married,” she rasps. “He’s… He seems pretty busy at the firm.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him?”

Caught. Ingrid forces out a shrug. “It’s the impression I got.”

“This is the problem with you.” Her father’s hand drops, and there’s an indignant expression on his face. “You’re not going into this with the right mindset.”

Something bubbles and flares in her stomach as her father rounds the desk, brandishing the letter at her.

“You’ve already written this young man off, without even meeting him. Now, I know that we are all stubborn in this family, but not for important matters like this, Ingy.”

Her throat winds in on itself, and Ingrid is too afraid to draw a breath.

“Even with those other boys too – you said they were too this or too that, and you didn’t like that—”

It’s seething and clattering in her aching limbs.

“—marriage is a compromise. It’s not like the fairytales you keep reading—”

She just needs to be _patient_ —

“—the way you’re behaving is simply too much, you’re being—”

“Selfish?”

It pounces out of her as a quiet, angry snarl, and her father immediately stops in his tracks.

Blood pounds against her ears, thunderous and terrifying, and Ingrid watches her father wilt and search for another word. But the silence is a dead give-away, and Ingrid is breathing too heavily for someone who hasn’t done anything but listen.

“Stubborn." Her father corrects himself at last. “You’re being stubborn.”

Her father retreats behind his desk, dropping the envelope on the surface. Plopping himself onto the chair, he rubs his eyes, as if he’s the one whose limbs hurt so much they can’t stand upright.

“Let’s drop the matter. This has spoiled the mood.”

Ingrid nods, and manages to turn her trembling frame away from the disappointed eyes of her father, and then walks out of the study, shivering.

-

Sylvain is leaning back in her chair, trying to balance a pen between his nose and upper lip, and tossing pick-up lines at Felix. Dimitri is trying to appear busy, but his computer screen is asleep, and Ingrid knows he’s just spacing out into the depths. Felix is scowling at Sylvain.

It’s one of those days in the precinct, where there’s nothing to do for the foreseeable future, and it’s going to drive her nuts, because Ingrid is still raw from her conversation with her father last night.

When Sylvain winks at Felix with his make-do moustache, and Ingrid sighs, reaching for her phone. It takes her three tries, and finally, she has—

_Hey. I wanted to stop by and say hi to the kids. Would that be okay? I’m sorry if this is sudden._

This will either make it worse or make it better, and honestly, at this point, Ingrid can’t be bothered anymore. With a pang of horror, she realises she’s been hanging out too much with Sylvain.

Before the dread can seep in, her phone pings, and the message reads, _sure! :) and np. the kids will be thrilled. tomorrow after four works great, because the theyll have some free time to play_

Ingrid hears a shout, and looks up to see Dimitri sprinting to save Sylvain from Felix’s deadlock. It takes her several seconds to go help Dimitri.

-

Ingrid has been playing with the kids for what feels like hours now, but there are only two things on her mind – one, the wall between the orphanage and the church, and two, the feeling of Mercedes’ eyes on her.

The wall starts at what Mercedes had called the ‘West Entrance’, when Ingrid had shown up five minutes before four. Her heart had hammered against her chest at the sight of the wall, and is still thudding loudly as she feels the prickle of Mercedes’ gaze on her. She’s too afraid to look up and confirm the feeling, but she’s distracted and hyper-aware, all at once.

So she obviously misses the ball which Anastasia kicks at her, blinking when Roger intercepts it and starts sprinting to the other end of the field. It takes her several seconds to chase after him, but by then he’s scored.

Her team sighs out a collective groan, which the other team joins into when Mercedes calls out from the sidelines, “Time to wrap up, everyone!”

Ingrid squats on the ground and tries to catch her breath, chest shuddering despite her strict gym and training routines. A shadow falls on her, and she looks up to find Maria, the new matron of the orphanage, handing her a waterbottle. She thanks the short, thin woman, and takes several generous gulps as the kids all wave goodbye and run indoors.

Ingrid rises and dusts off the dirt on her trousers, when she hears Mercedes say, “Thank you for coming.”

Ingrid braves a look at her at last, and her eyes are soft, smile softer. Her mind darts to the wall, hard stone and rough cement, and she wants to ask her what changed.

But she’s still a coward, so she says, “It’s no problem. Thanks for having me over. I…I know how much it means to them.”

The evening breeze grabs the _I know how much it means to you_ and runs away with it.

The clatter of children returning indoors fades away, and the silence between them grows thicker. In her peripheral vision, Ingrid can still see that fucking wall.

As if she knows, Mercedes hums, “The place looks different, doesn’t it?”

“I noticed,” chokes out Ingrid. “The- The wall is new.”

“We’ve had some renovations,” she says, as if that explains anything. “I could show you around sometime, if you’re free. And if, of course, you want to.”

“I’d love to. And…I have some time now, if you’re free.”

Her smile is finally genuine when she says, “Come with me,” and something deep within Ingrid starts to ache.

It beats down her throat and catches in her chest as she follows the swish of Mercedes’ skirt into the building. The common area, which has children and papers and pencils scattered across the floor, looks the same. Ingrid waves at Maria, before following Mercedes up the stairs and to the first floor.

Ingrid smells the varnish before she sees the newly-painted classrooms, bright in shades of yellow and green and orange. A projector hangs from the ceiling, and the blackboard has a white screen pulled down before it. The tables and chairs are new, too.

“Wow."

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” giggles Mercedes. The sound dances through the classroom and vibrates along her chest. “Ferdinand was sweet enough to sponsor all of it.”

“That’s nice of him,” says Ingrid, trying to remember if he ever brought it up during their meeting many weeks ago. She fails, and gestures to the projector instead. “The kids must love that.”

“They do,” smiles Mercedes. Her lips, so plump and soft, purse into a pout. “Oh, but I’m so bad at getting it to work properly. It takes ages to start it up.”

Ingrid imagines Mercedes pouting at the projector the same way she’s pouting at it now, while the kids try to stifle their giggles. A smile draws across her face.

“Are you laughing at me, now?” huffs Mercedes.

Ingrid quickly rearranges her face to something more neutral.

“Not at all,” she says.

Mercedes is half-upset, half-smiling. “Good, because the kids tease me enough.” She glides to the teacher’s desk and pulls out a remote. Points it at the projector and presses buttons randomly. When nothing happens, she sighs, “Oh, again?”

Ingrid clears her throat and sticks out her hand.

“You try it and see. It doesn’t listen.”

A teasing frown still dancing across her sweet features, Mercedes deposits the remote in her hand. The brush of her soft fingers against her palm is enough to knock all the wind out of her chest.

Struggling to keep it together, Ingrid chokes out, “Maybe the power button is a good place to start.”

The projector flickers to life, and Mercedes scowls at it. Half-bathed in the silver-blue artificial light, Ingrid is reminded of how she looked on her terrace, so long ago.

The ache in her chest screams at her to ask, now.

But then Mercedes bursts into shy giggles, and Ingrid, bubbling with nervous energy, joins her, until the only sound in the classroom is their laughter. And it feels so familiar and different all at once, with the memory of the last time they were here, just before everything fell apart.

When they settle, Ingrid isn’t sure why her eyes feel wet, but she wipes the tears away anyway.

Mercedes sighs, “I’m a stereotype, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine,” smiles Ingrid, wishing Mercedes wouldn’t look at her like that. It makes her want to do things she’s not allowed to do, not anymore.

There’s a moment of silence, where Ingrid watches the bob of Mercedes’ throat as she swallows, and then the older woman says, “Let me show you the library. I think you’ll like it.”

So she follows the swish of Mercedes’ skirt again, out of the laughter in the classroom and down the corridor. When Mercedes opens the door, Ingrid sees a massive pile of books in the centre of the unused classroom, a few bookshelves lining the walls.

“I need to sort all of this out, but I just haven’t had the time,” says Mercedes, sighing and walking towards the only shelf with books in it. “But I thought you’d enjoy this.”

And she tugs out a thin, familiar blue volume and holds it out—

“Loog and the Maiden of the Wind,” says Ingrid, chuckling.

“The children love it,” says Mercedes, letting Ingrid take the book and flip through the pages fondly. “They always get into fights on who gets to read which parts. You’d think they’d prefer all these other books, but.”

“It’s a good book,” defends Ingrid, finding a familiar passage and smiling at it. It’s the scene where the General defends the King against a hundred warriors, one of her favourite parts of the story.

Mercedes stands beside her then, looking at the pages too, and the smell of her lavender perfume is gentle and heady and soothing and clamps her throat shut.

“They love this part, too.”

Ingrid turns to look at her then, and Mercedes is close enough to count the freckles on her cheeks. Everything starts to scream then – her chest, her throat, her mind, her ears, her limbs – to ask her, to ask her, to ask her.

“I… The place is so different. Good different, that is. Um…”

“It’s a lot of change, isn’t it?” The response is non-committal and answers nothing.

Ingrid blurts out, “What’s with the wall?”

Mercedes looks away from her, laughing quietly to herself. “Hubert helped out with that. He got the contractors in, and they built it in just a day. It was so sweet of him, but don’t let him know I said that.”

“Oh… That’s nice of him.”

“My father signed over the orphanage to me.”

And that takes all the air out of her lungs.

“He…what?”

Mercedes is now smiling at the open book in Ingrid’s limp fingers, and she says, “Well, there’s a few papers left, but he said he’d be sending in those next week. The orphanage is no longer under the church’s name.”

Ingrid’s brain stutters as she tries to think. “So then…the kids, and the donations, you…”

“We now accept any child who needs a home. And the donation schemes have been restructured, and are available for anyone to see.”

Ingrid stares at the gentle curve of her cheek, mouth hanging open. When she’s silent for too long, Mercedes looks up, and giggles at her expression.

“It’s almost unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“It’s amazing,” she breathes, the twinkle of happiness in Mercedes’ eyes almost too much to bear. “Congratulations. I-I mean, I’m happy for you. I know how much it means to you.”

“Thank you,” she says, softly.

“How— Why—”

“Ferdinand was the one who did all the work, actually. Something about enough evidence to have the orphanage removed from my adoptive father’s possession. He could either separate the orphanage from the church, or face legal action. Oh, you know I’m not so good with all these technical terms."

“You… You took him to court?”

“Oh, no, but Edelgard seemed quite serious about it.” Mercedes hums a smile. “You know how she is, so determined and sure of herself.”

Ingrid blinks at her, and something trembles along her hands.

“You asked Edelgard for help,” she finally says, and her breath hitches when Mercedes looks away.

“I suppose I did,” she breathes. Ingrid waits, tremors rattling through her chest. “Someone very smart had told me that she could help with the orphanage. So I asked, and one thing led to another, and now there’s a wall.”

Ingrid can’t breathe again, something warm and heavy sinking deep into her chest.

“This person told me that we weren’t tools to be used,” whispers Mercedes. “So I went up to my father, told him that I want to live my life the way I want to, and chase after my happiness. I called Lorenz and broke off the engagement, and moved in with Annie the next day.”

Mercedes isn’t looking at her, and Ingrid wants her to, with an aching desperation.

“It was all quite dramatic, when I think about it now.” Mercedes giggles into her hand.

She has to say something. She needs to let Mercedes know, that—

“I tried it your way,” chokes Ingrid. Mercedes looks at her then, and it feels like she can breathe even less. “I tried it your way, and it worked.”

“But it’s hard, isn’t it?”

Mechanically, Ingrid makes herself nod.

“You’re not supposed to be like that. You’re supposed to do whatever they tell you,” sighs Mercedes.

And then her eyes start sparkling, warm and soft like the sunlight through a kitchen window. She can smell cinnamon.

“It’s hard being selfish,” she says, and everything in Ingrid breaks.

She wants to be selfish, she wants to be free, she wants, she wants so much.

Mercedes reaches out a hand and tucks back a lock of Ingrid’s hair, a movement unconscious in its familiarity. Slender fingers trail her jaw, and Mercedes is looking at her with a tenderness that hurts.

“But some things are worth being selfish for.”

Ingrid lets herself fall into the softness of Mercedes’ arms, and lavender perfume embraces her tightly and protectively. Rubbing soothing circles at the base of her skull, Mercedes is whispering something amid the crescendo of tremors wreaking through her body, but Ingrid doesn’t listen.

For just one moment, the world is made of soft slopes and gentle curves again.

-

It feels like Ingrid is watching the scene from far away, when her father calls her to his study a few days later.

She sees the way he stands behind his desk, anxiously tapping the old, polished wood, and hears the inflection in his voice when he says, “Now, I know we left off on a poor note last time.”

Ingrid can’t see her response, but she knows she did something, because her father continues, reaching for the letter from its throne on his desk.

“Let’s try to put it behind us, and move forward. Just…take a look at this proposal. See if you want to meet him. For me.”

Looking back, there’s so much she’s done for him, for her family, and Ingrid can only now see how it’s ravaged her soul.

So she simply says, “No.”

“No?” repeats her father. “What do you mean, no?”

She stays silent.

“Ingy,” sighs her father. “If this is because of what happened last time, I’m sorry I suggested that you were selfish. I know it’s wrong and I didn’t—”

“No, you were right,” says Ingrid, terrified of the mildness in her voice. “I am selfish. Which is why I’m saying no to the Herving proposal, and to all the others, too.”

Her father’s mouth hangs open, and if this were any other situation, it might have been funny. Ingrid blinks, trying to bring herself back. It’s now or never, and Ingrid is tired of fighting.

“You never asked me if this was what I wanted. You told me that this was what I was supposed to do, and so of course I listened to you, because you’re my dad, and you know what’s best for me.”

Her father swallows.

“I carried the burden of saving our entire family even before I graduated highschool,” says Ingrid, and the words come out of her softer than it feels. “So I think it’s time I was selfish.”

“Ingrid,” says her father, voice low. “Please, think about what you’re saying.”

“All I’ve done is think,” says Ingird. “I’ve been thinking of how I am a disappointment to you, to mom, and to the family name. I’ve thought about how you and mom might not be able to live comfortably if I chose myself. I have been thinking about the guilt of letting you down. I’ve thought and thought about so much for so long, and the answer is still the same.”

Everything from here will be murky and foggy, but it will be worth it.

“I’m going to chase my own happiness, and I can’t do that if I keep listening to what others tell me what to do. I’m not asking you, Dad, I’m telling you. This is my life to make, from now on.”

She will have to live with the guilt for the rest of her life, but…

“I’m not getting married,” says Ingrid. “Not in the way you want me to.”

Her father’s eyes widen, something like disbelief and realisation in them, but it’s time for Ingrid to go. She watches herself leave the study, and the door clicks shut behind her.

…maybe one day, everything will be soft again.

-

It was all very dramatic, yes, but Ingrid isn’t in the clear yet.

They never talk about what Ingrid said after that, but her father stops calling her into his study and showing her proposals. Of course things don't end there -- the topic of marriage continues to seep into conversations here and there, and Ingrid holds her ground despite the sinking feeling in her chest.

She has Conrad and her mother to thank, when, one month after, she receives the all-clear.

It’s Saint Seiros Day, and they’re decorating the house. Ingrid sits on the living room floor, de-tangling long strings of festival lights, as her mother pulls out gold-and-silver decorations from a box. Conrad is standing on a chair, trying to hang up a few decoration, and her father holds the chair for safety, commenting on the crooked lines.

When he shouts out suddenly, Ingrid whips her head around to see Conrad wobble dangerously, before steadying himself.

“Conrad!” cries her mother, partly-afraid, partly-chastising. “Be careful! What if you fell and hurt yourself?”

“Sorry,” grins Conrad, bashfully.

“You’d better be careful,” says her father, gripping the chair tightly, one protective hand on Conrad’s leg for support. “I intend on seeing at least one of my children’s weddings in this lifetime.”

A soft, woolen calm silences the incessant buzzing in Ingrid's head.

Conrad shoots her a secretive, pleased smile, before turning back to the decorations, and her father continues criticising his placements of it, and her mother goes back to the ornaments, and Ingrid is numb.

Every nerve starts singing then, rushing from one end of her body to the opposite, a carnival celebration of elation telling every part of her right away, that they don’t have to be unhappy anymore.

Ingrid is free.

But as she gets into her car to drive back home that night, tipsy on wine and drunk on happiness, she decides that she is going to be selfish. It takes her four times to type it out, and she sends—

_Can I come see you now?_

Her heart thunders in anticipation.

At last, Mercedes’ response arrives—

_yes_

Ingrid has never driven faster in her life.


	13. Waiting, Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you for today. I had a wonderful time.”
> 
> So formal, thinks Mercedes fondly. But this is all part of Ingrid’s plan to ‘properly’ woo her or something such, so she indulges her with, “Me, too. I hope we can do this again.”
> 
> Ingrid beams, and Mercedes knows what’s coming next, when Ingrid’s eyes stay on her lips for just a moment too long.
> 
> She’s smiling when Ingrid takes a shy step closer, and the trembling in her chest is enough to warm her up despite the frosty air.
> 
> Mercedes teases, “Oh, did you want your coat back?”

It always snows on Saint Seiros Day.

Cotton-white ice lazily drifts from the sky, covering the ground with a pale blanket of cold and silence. Waking up the next day to see the world move around her, muffled and soft from the snow, is one of Mercedes’ favourite pastimes, as people spend the day in the warm company with those dear to them.

She looks out of the window idly, the sound of Annie’s videogames buzzing in the background, and wonders if the children would enjoy making snowmen with her. Mercedes decides to ask Ingrid when she arrives – so late, so unexpected – if she’d join them in a bit of fun. She doesn’t think Ingrid would say no.

Her phone pings loudly then with the message of Ingrid’s arrival, and Mercedes hopes she’s alright.

Annie pops her inquisitive little head up when she fiddles with the intercom, look turning sly when she hears Ingrid’s voice. It’s amazing how she manages to disappear into her bedroom just as Ingrid knocks, and Mercedes shakes her head with a smile.

When she opens the door, Ingrid has a thin layer of snow on her.

“Hi,” says Ingrid, voice breathless and emerging as puffs of cold air.

“Oh, you poor thing,” says Mercedes, and her hands are traitorous enough to reach over and brush her shoulder. Ingrid shakes off the rest, and Mercedes steps aside with, “Come on in.”

The second thing she notices, as Ingrid passes by her and into their hall, is that she has a bunch of lavenders in her hand.

“Ah,” begins Ingrid, ever-so-eloquent when under duress, and shuffles awkwardly for a moment.

Against the bubbling hope lighting her chest, Mercedes wonders where she got the flowers from so late.

“Mercedes von Martritz,” begins Ingrid, proudly and determinedly, then suddenly clamps her mouth shut.

And there it is, after so long, the lovely pink blush across her cheeks. It fuels the tingling warmth inside Mercedes.

“Ingrid Brandl Galatea,” she breathes. Ingrid has always been easy to read, every emotion dancing across her sweet features, and because she simply can’t resist, she teases, “Are those for me?”

“Yes. But, um. W-Wait, I had something planned.”

Ingrid struggles for several moments, but Mercedes is a patient woman.

There’s something comforting in how predictable Ingrid is, earnest and determined to a fault. When Ingrid clears her throat and prepares to speak, Mercedes is trembling with a desperate kind of hope.

“Mercedes, you are kind, gentle, and brave. In the short time we have known each other, you have impacted my life greatly. You mean more to me than words can express. I know we… I know things turned out differently before, but I wanted to do it properly this time.”

Her eyes flare, and Mercedes has always been too weak to resist it swallowing her whole. 

“If you will have me, I will be yours.”

And for all her predictability, Ingrid will go and say something like this. She loves to defy the odds, this one.

“Oh, my,” breathes Mercedes.

But Ingrid is waiting for a proper answer, shaky and hopeful all at once.

Instead, Mercedes says, “Shouldn’t we go on a date before I have you?”

Ingrid splutters, and Mercedes bites her lip against her smile, begging the warmth in her chest to stay at bay.

“I– Yes. We should. That’s– That’s a good idea. Yes.”

Ingrid’s look is serious and flustered all at once, and really, Mercedes is far too old to be feeling this way.

So she says, “I think you’re supposed to give me the flowers now.”

“R-Right.” Their fingers brush when she takes the stems, tingling through Mercedes’ body.

“Thank you.”

Ingrid smiles then, face round and bright with happiness. Mercedes is bursting at the seams with something warm and golden-hued, and it escapes out of her as a laugh that Ingrid joins into.

It’s so silly, _she’s_ so silly for feeling this way, but it starts somewhere deep in her bones, quivering on the hairs of her skin.

“Where even did you get these from?” she manages.

Ingrid turns pinker, as if the snow and laughter weren’t enough, and she says, “I took it from Dorothea’s house. D-Don’t worry, Manuela gave me permission.”

“At–” Mercedes checks her watch, “–12:37 am?”

“Well, no, not exactly, she said I was…” Ingrid trails off, nervously scratching her neck.

Mercedes hears the shy, mumbled words, and she’s not sure if she should hear them again for her own sake. But Ingrid is here in front of her, bright and warm and blushing.

So she cocks an eyebrow and waits, smile threatening to break her lips, until Ingrid finally mutters, “I was free to give it to somebody special.”

Really, she brought this on herself.

So Mercedes laughs again, and her hands really aren’t listening to her anymore as they pull Ingrid into a warm, sturdy embrace.

There’s a choir of music reverberating through her chest, and Ingrid is close and solid and steady right beside it. Ingrid pulls away, and Mercedes can only grin foolishly at the sunbeam of her smile.

Ingrid says, “How does that Almyran place on Saturday at 8.30 sound?”

Recklessly and intrusively, the thought flashes through her mind that they could go right now. It’s 12.40 am and everything is closed, but Mercedes wouldn’t mind dragging their feet through the inch of snow outside if that means–

But that’s not what Ingrid wants. Ingrid wants to take her out and wear a nice shirt and hold open doors and drop her home, and Mercedes isn’t thinking with her head.

So she presses a kiss to Ingrid’s cheek and says, “It’s a date.”

-

Annie’s obstinate that she wear a dress, despite the cold. It’s a lovely blue, low-cut and stopping at her knees, but it’s also nearly freezing temperatures out there.

Terrible, as always, Annie had said with a naughty glint, “Ingrid will warm you up,” before announcing that she wasn’t going to be at home that night. Mercedes can only smile about it now, as she mends the button on the back of the dress.

Perhaps Ingrid would drop her off at the door with a kiss. Perhaps Ingrid will push her up against the wall and take her. Perhaps Ingrid would do none of those things. But Mercedes has a say in what happens, and perhaps she’ll invite Ingrid upstairs.

It’s a strange feeling, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.

Want is a complex emotion on it’s own, and there are many things surrounding it that make it more difficult. People like to temper it to their own odd desires, and Mercedes can do little else when they look at her expectantly. Easier to mould it into something that suits everyone, than let it take control, because what would she do then? What would she do if she let it move her hands without a care for everything around her?

But Ingrid doesn’t think like that. Want pulls back the arrow as far as it needs before the string snaps in release, and Ingrid charges ahead anyway. So perhaps, Mercedes needn’t to worry so much, either.

And there’s less eyes on her now, anyway. It makes looking around a lot easier. But Ingrid has a bad habit of making her fingers tremble dangerously and mind race recklessly, and Mercedes has always been reluctant to see the emotion through the course. Yet now, without all those hurdles, she probably could.

Ridiculous thoughts. The button is fixed now, and she should start getting ready. Ingrid is nothing but punctual, and she has about thirty minutes.

Twenty-five minutes later, her phone chimes. Mercedes smiles as she slips on blue earrings.

Ingrid waits beside her car, looking simply dashing in a vest and a coat and deliciously tight pants. She’s really gone all out, thinks Mercedes. What a silly, sweet girl.

“Hi,” she says, breath pooling in the freezing air.

Mercedes finds herself pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Hello, handsome.”

A silver huff of laughter, and Ingrid says, “You look amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Her hand rests against the smooth fabric of Ingrid’s coat until she says, “Shall we?”

Then they’re on their way to the restaurant, only 15 minutes away. The streets pass by in a blur of golden lights and purple buildings, surrounded by dark blue skies and ivory snow.

Ingrid’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly, but Mercedes doesn’t say anything.

The car is warm, thankfully, and Mercedes smiles at the bauble hanging from the rear-view mirror – a memento from a horse ranch nearby. Conversation is light and simple, but Mercedes presses her elbow into the cold glass of the window, hoping to ground herself.

When they pull into the restaurant’s parking lot, Ingrid’s knuckles are white, and Mercedes can’t ignore it anymore. Ingrid turns off the ignition, and Mercedes reaches for her trembling fingers, gently entwining their hands.

“What’s wrong?”

Ingrid’s eyes flicker with worry, and she says, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Easy, now.” Mercedes brushes a thumb along rough knuckles. “It’s just me, Ingrid.”

“Exactly,” snaps Ingrid, jaw set and stubborn. “It’s _you_. I don’t want this to end up like last time, because–”

She cuts herself off with a sigh and a shake of her head, and Mercedes understands.

“Last time,” she tries again, “it wasn’t just you and me.”

Clean split or no, brushing away the expectations of her adopted father is difficult, now that it’s almost ingrained into her. Mercedes never minded not getting to choose, because someone else has always come by and taken care of that responsibility for her.

“There’s just so much more that needs to be done,” sighs Ingrid. “And it makes me worry that…”

Aren’t dreams so much easier when they’re fragments of desire before you sleep? Pretty and preserved in a pink cloud of perfection, and Mercedes needn’t worry about taking it in her hands.

So she understands why Ingrid’s shake so terribly now.

Mercedes brings Ingrid’s fingers to her lips and presses a kiss to the knuckles, as slow and gentle as she can. She needs to make some sense of the conflicted jumble in her own mind, to ease Ingrid’s nerves, at least.

“I’m sorry,” breathes Ingrid. “I don’t mean to spoil the mood.”

“Not at all.” Mercedes wants to kiss away the worried furrow in her eyebrows. “It’s frightening, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“But look at you. You got out of it, despite it all. You’ve always been so strong.”

Ingrid’s eyes melt. “So are you, Mercie.” She blinks, and Mercedes is witness once again to her burning determination. “I promise I won’t let it happen again. No matter what, I’ll...”

Her voice dies with a rough rasp, and Mercedes holds her breath, waiting.

“I’ll make sure nothing comes between us again, Mercie.”

The relief escapes out of her as a sigh, and Mercedes smiles at the resolve in her strong jaw. It should carry them both through this, and Mercedes needn’t think so much then. It’s all so new and strange, and she isn’t sure if she should dip her toes into those murky waters quite yet.

But these are all very serious thoughts for a happy evening, so Mercedes giggles and says, “Ever the chivalrous knight, aren’t you?”

It cuts through the tension, making Ingrid flush sweetly.

“I’m watching too many historical documentaries. Listen to me go on,” she says ruefully.

“On the contrary, I think you should continue.”

Ingrid giggles, and squeezes her hand. “Then, milady, may I have the honour of dining with you?”

The sunbeams return then, stronger than before, and threaten to blow her apart.

But she smiles against them, and says, “I’d love to, sweetheart.”

-

Of course Ingrid offers to drop her back home.

Dinner had flurried by in a rush of shared laughter and fleeting touches and Almyran spices. For all the changes over the last few months, some things stay the same – particularly, Ingrid’s singular focus on food. Watching her devour aromatic rice and tender meats, Mercedes had prattled on about the orphanage, ever-so-aware of the gentle glow tingling her skin.

But now it’s time to go home, and Ingrid places her jacket over her shoulders.

“It’s getting cold,” she mumbles, face pink. It’s not from the falling snow, and Mercedes hides a smile. She wonders how much of this was for her, and how much was for Ingrid herself.

Mercedes finds she doesn’t mind either way.

Parking her car a few meters away from her house, Ingrid accompanies her to her doorstep. The streetlights throw golden rays onto silver snow, and something sparkles in Mercedes’ chest when they reach the steps to her apartment.

“Well,” she breathes, and Ingrid is momentarily hidden by a puff of cold air.

“Well,” agrees Ingrid, scratching her neck nervously. “Thank you for today. I had a wonderful time.”

So formal, thinks Mercedes fondly. But this is all part of Ingrid’s plan to ‘properly’ woo her or something such, so she indulges her with, “Me, too. I hope we can do this again.”

Ingrid beams, and Mercedes knows what’s coming next, when Ingrid’s eyes stay on her lips for just a moment too long.

She’s smiling when Ingrid takes a shy step closer, and the trembling in her chest is enough to warm her up despite the frosty air.

It _wants_ , and to keep it at bay, Mercedes teases, “Oh, did you want your coat back?”

Interrupted, Ingrid blinks and stammers, “A-Ah. Right, the coat. Thanks.”

She tosses it over one shoulder. Ingrid is close enough that Mercedes can count her eyelashes. Their breathing, no longer cloudy bursts of cold air, warms the space in-between.

Mercedes says, “Were you going to kiss me?”

“I-If that is alright with you.”

“I don’t mind.”

So Ingrid takes another tiny step closer, until their bodies are flush next to each other, and kisses her at last.

Ingrid is gentle where Mercedes would not be, pressing cold-chapped lips against hers slowly. The sheer sensuality sends shocks along Mercedes’ spine and sparks off at the tips of her fingers. When Ingrid grasps her waist firmly, Mercedes cups her jaw and pulls her closer.

She shivers when Ingrid suckles on her bottom lip, but Mercedes is far away from the cold, in the warm circle of Ingrid’s strong arms.

They part with a shaky gasp of air, and Ingrid presses their foreheads together. Mercedes can do little but hold her close as the aftershocks sizzle through her limbs.

“I missed that. I missed you,” breathes Ingrid.

“I’ve missed you, too,” says Mercedes, and pulls Ingrid’s lips back on hers.

The snow covers them in a blanket of quiet, and the only thing she hears is Ingrid’s pleased hum as their lips meet and part. There’s nobody for miles, and so Mercedes indulges in the earnestness of Ingrid’s mouth until her chest burns from the lack of frozen air.

Parting, breath mingling and melting the air around them, Mercedes can see every fleck of deep green in her verdant eyes. They flicker with a desire that Mercedes wants to reach into and kindle until she’s aflame.

But Ingrid disentangles their limbs when she steps back, just a small step, enough for the cold air to creep into.

Clearing her throat and hiding behind a shaky smile, Ingrid says, “Thank you. Again. Um.”

Residual wisps of desire still coursing through her, Mercedes watches Ingrid detach herself from the want in her body.

Such a strange emotion, tied so deeply to what is right and what is proper. Too often does Mercedes wonder if she has a say in where her want goes. And even if she does let it go, what would happen? Who would she be, if she attempted to control something supposedly sent by the Divine?

Yet as Ingrid shuffles uncomfortably under her gaze, Mercedes finds that the flames are unwilling to dance to the eyes around her.

“I...It’s getting late. I’ll see you again soon,” says Ingrid.

Many things are different, but so many more are the same. She knows that she can make Ingrid quiver if she sucks on her neck like this, or curls her fingers like that. Mercedes loves to see Ingrid like that, trembling and begging for release, all from the raging in her chest.

Annie isn’t at home. Nobody is around them now. And those who did look have been sent away, with only the ghosts of their gazes remaining.

So Mercedes smiles and says, “Then I suppose I’ll have to wait until the third date to fuck you?”

Ingrid turns bright red and stammers, “I-I mean. Not...Not necessarily.”

“Good,” she says, and pulls Ingrid by her collar until their lips crash together.

Ingrid grunts in surprise, but grips her waist firmly, melting the icy air that had crept between them with her burning kisses. Mercedes slides her tongue along her lower lip, slipping inside at her gasp, the molten heat sinking through her body and settling between her legs.

It grows, fed by soft sounds and firm touches, until Mercedes is shivering and burning up all at once.

She breaks away with, “Upstairs.”

“Are you–”

“ _Yes._ ”

So Ingrid follows her to her apartment, holding her hand tightly. She wastes no time on décor this time, pulling her close for another searing kiss. Her mouth lowers to press kisses along her neck, and Mercedes’ breath hitches.

As appealing as the couch is for it’s proximity, the bed would be a much better decision for her back. So she presses a hand against Ingrid’s shoulder, breathing a laugh when she sees the hunger in her eyes.

"Easy, tiger," she says. "Let's get to the bedroom, first."

"Right," husks Ingrid. "Wh-Where exactly–"

Mercedes laughs again as the awful warmth sinks deeper into her bones. Tugging her into her bedroom by the hall, Mercedes finds herself pressed against the door and Ingrid's lips again. Ingrid's hands trace burning rivulets along the length of her hips, teasing at the fabric there.

"Needy, aren't you?" breathes Mercedes when they part, but Ingrid ignores her to press warm kisses along her neck. A gasp erupts from deep within her chest as her lips curve behind her ear. When she sucks, Mercedes’ bones liquefy.

Mercedes tugs the short hair at the base of her skull and Ingrid whines, looking up. She kisses the sweet sound on Ingrid's lips, darting in a tongue and tasting Almyran spices and perfumed meats. One hand still firmly gripping her hair, Mercedes lets the other dance along the buttons of Ingrid's vest.

"Mercie," gasps Ingrid, suddenly pulling away. "Wait."

"Is everything okay?" asks Mercedes, when Ingrid struggles.

"Let me take care of you," she blurts. "Please."

Sunshine charges along the goosebumps on her skin, and Mercedes shivers. The words fill her up with ambrosia, thick and heavy as it trails down her throat and to her cunt.

Perhaps it would be better this way, if Ingrid took her apart with her steady hands and resolute fingers, until the embers were too weak to flare up and chase their course.

So Mercedes smiles and presses a kiss at the corner of her mouth, taking her hand and drawing her further into the room. Ingrid's hands catch the hem of her dress, and Mercedes lets Ingrid lift the cloth over her shoulders.

Ingrid looks at her body with pure reverence, hands tracing the stretch marks on her thighs and lining of her panties as she drops her head to neck. Ingrid sucks the sweet spot again, making Mercedes moan louder than expected, and those calloused fingers slide over ass.

Ridding Ingrid of her vest and shirt, Mercedes is pulled to the bed. Ingrid lowers her against the pillows, so gentle and sure, kissing her slowly.

"May I…" begins Ingrid, shyly tracing her bra strap.

Mercedes giggles. "Ingrid, you've seen me naked before."

"T-True, but… I thought I should clarify," she pouts.

Mercedes leans forward, unhooking the clasp and slipping her shoulders out of the garment, which she flings across the room.

Leaning back, Mercedes purrs, "Does this clear things up?"

"Uh-huh," says Ingrid, firmly fixated on her breasts. "Very clear."

"My eyes are up here, officer."

Ingrid's eyes snap to hers instantly.

Mercedes laughs, echoing through her room, and Ingrid drops her head right against the rays in her chest as she joins in.

"You're so silly," sighs Mercedes.

"Am not," grumbles Ingrid into her skin. It reverberates through the goosebumps along her flesh.

"Says the girl who just proclaimed that she'll take care of me."

Ingrid looks up, eyebrows defensive and furrowed, and says, "I meant that. You deserve to be taken care of, and I… I want to."

Mercedes cups her cheeks, tracing the soft skin under her fingertips, and smiles. Always with the grandiose statements, this one.

"Alright," and she kisses her again because she wants to, "then put your mouth to better use."

Ingrid beams at her, pink and pleased, and Mercedes kisses her again. Ingrid's tongue slides against the lower row of her teeth, and Mercedes shudders, leaning back against the pillows.

Her lips follow down her neck, sucking and marking the skin, before slipping down to her breasts. Mercedes grips Ingrid's shoulder tightly as the wet heat of her mouth traps her nipple, trembling at the gentle press of her tongue against the tip.

When Ingrid opens her mouth to trace her areola with her tongue, electricity shivers through Mercedes and she throws her head back with a gasp. Her hand comes to knead her other breast, and Mercedes bites her lip when a rough thumb flicks her nipple.

"Ingrid," she sighs, and Ingrid hums.

Goddess, she's so sensitive to Ingrid's touches. Or perhaps that's because Ingrid knows she likes things in a particular way. Her teeth graze against her swollen, glistening nipple, and Mercedes shudders out another gasp, which turns into a moan when Ingrid bites down. Her lips purse around the raw skin to suck it again, massaging the tip with her tongue.

Ingrid shifts to the other breast, nipple pert with a lack of attention, and mouths it dutifully. The hot, wet softness against one breast and the calloused pinches against the other is almost enough to undo her completely, and it settles as an insistent wetness between Mercedes’ legs.

"Ingrid," she sighs again.

But Ingrid simply continues to ravish her tits, and Mercedes is reminded of her single-minded approach to food. Her teeth clamp down on the side of her breast, and Mercedes finally cracks.

"S-Sweetheart," she gasps, "don't you think you're getting a bit carried away?"

"Huh?" Ingrid's eyes meet hers, and widen. "R-Right. Sorry."

Mercedes laughs breathlessly, and pulls her up for another kiss. Against Ingrid's hot, wanting lips, she wonders if things will really remain so silly and so warm.

Ingrid disentangles herself to move further down, but she keeps getting distracted. Her teeth bite bruises along her sternum and her nails scratch marks along her hips. Mercedes arches into the touches, warm and wet and trembling.

And finally, her fingers slip around her thigh and over her damp panties. Rough fingers that tease through soft fabric have her moaning, and Ingrid presses a thumb against the cloth covering her clit. Her hips buck into her hand, snapping away from the shackles, and all Mercedes wants is to grind into Ingrid's calloused fingers until she can't think.

"Ingrid, sweetheart," she gasps. "Hurry–"

Ingrid has the audacity to kiss her, and hum, "Be patient. Weren't you the one who told me good things come to those who wait?"

Mercedes frowns, half-smiling at her cocky grin, and says sternly, "Ingrid Brandl Galatea."

"Mercedes von Martritz," smiles Ingrid against the corner of her mouth.

Is love really supposed to be so silly?

"I said I'll take care of you," continues Ingrid. "Let me."

She accentuates the words with another rough circle around her clit, and a burning beam of pleasure darts down her legs and curls her toes. Mercedes throws her head back, laughing or moaning, she isn't sure. Either way, Ingrid teases more static along her skin, threatening to blow her apart.

Two fingers press along the length of her cunt, so tantalizingly close yet not what Mercedes needs. Ingrid lowers her lips back to her nipple, tonguing it before biting down.

The shock trembles down her body, and that's when Ingrid finally shoves aside her panties and presses two fingers into her cunt.

Ingrid's knuckles are so deliciously thick and rough, and they graze against her entrance, stretching her out and filling her up. Two knuckles in already and she curls her fingers, pressing against the sensitive flesh and drawing out a sharp cry from Mercedes. The added sensation of her teeth tugging at her nipple makes her hips rock into her hand, pulling her in deeper with a wet sound.

One pump, and Mercedes can feel sunshine razing along the underside of her thighs and arms. Two pumps, and something thick and heavy explodes out of her chest, sounding like Ingrid's name, but she's not sure. Three pumps, and Mercedes sees the faint glimmer of constellations against closed eyelids.

But that's when Ingrid pulls her teeth away from her breast and her fingers from her cunt, a wicked, wicked grin on her sweet face.

Mercedes is about to say something, trembling and indignant, when Ingrid puts her fingers into her mouth and sucks, lips curved around the knuckles that were in Mercedes a few moments ago. There's a sticky line of arousal hanging down her fist, and she laps it up dutifully.

Mercedes tastes herself on Ingrid's mouth when their lips crash together. With an urgency that doesn't match her earlier actions, Ingrid scrambles on top of her, tugging her panties out of the way.

Ingrid licks her lips when met with Mercedes' dripping slit, and spreads her open to the cool air with two fingers.

When her tongue presses against her trembling hole, Mercedes knows she won't last long. And indeed, when Ingrid licks roughly along her slick folds and towards her clit, Mercedes can feel molten sunbeams forming at her every tendon.

Her fingers tangle themselves in Ingrid's short locks to hold her in place, nails scratching her scalp. Her lips close around her clit, sucking gently. Fingers press against her entrance before curving in and out, pressing behind the spot that her tongue flicks.

When Ingrid looks up at her with half-lidded eyes, the sunshine starts to pour out, morphing into lighting that explodes with a flash.

Mercedes throws her head back with a long moan and grinds into Ingrid's face as she's flung into the blinding apex of her climax, skin and nerves burning up from the heat.

Right at the crest, with nothing but the yellow sunshine of pleasure around her, Mercedes knows Ingrid will catch her.

So she lets herself fall, bucking against Ingrid's attentive mouth that jolts her upward and cradles her back. With a long, slow swipe of her tongue, Ingrid gently rests her back onto the pillows, and the seams that held everything back crumble and melt away.

Soft kisses along her thighs and stomach tickle the edges of her orgasm, and Ingrid wavers back into her vision, lips slick and curved. Dimly, Mercedes realises that she's still smiling, and her hands, jelly-like and uncooperative, cup Ingrid's strong jaw clumsily.

Pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, Ingrid whispers, "Good?"

"Good," she mumbles, and turns to press her mouth fully against Ingrid's smile.

Mercedes tries to blink away the pink clouds of her climax, but the glow still remains. Now with nothing to hold it back, it shines through her body and across their hot skin.

It's love, and she can't hide from it anymore, so it explodes out of her freely as a laugh.

Nose pressed into her cheek, Ingrid giggles, "What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

"Mercie," she pouts.

Shaking her head, Mercedes keeps the words inside her with a smile.

When Ingrid pulls away slightly, Mercedes catches sight of her defiant eyebrows and stubborn jaw, and it lodges in her chest as a blinding arrow of light.

"Tell me."

Love feels a lot like Ingrid, adamant and bright. It _wants_ just like her too, with shivering courage and trembling stubbornness.

"I want to ruin you," she breathes.

Ingrid's eyes widen.

"I want to fuck you into the mattress," Mercedes continues, dragging a thumb along Ingrid's lip. "Until the only thing you can say is my name."

Turning bright red, she says eloquently, "Ah."

Mercedes giggles, and says, "May I?"

"Please," says Ingrid desperately, and everything happens quickly after that.

They switch positions, until Ingrid is the one lying against the pillows, knees already spreading apart. Mercedes smiles down at her and kisses her, wantonly, drawing her tongue along Ingrid's to pull out a needy whine that lights her up from inside. A nip to her bottom lip leaves her gasping, and Mercedes pulls back and turns to her side-table. Strap firmly seated between her legs, Mercedes crawls back on top of Ingrid, looking down at her trembling frame.

It's familiar and predictable, and Mercedes takes comfort in the fact. So she draws her nails along the hard, sculpted plains of her abs, expecting and receiving her hiss of pleasure. When Mercedes lightly traces a finger along the bright red skin, Ingrid starts to quiver uncontrollably.

Her hand cups Ingrid's breast and kneads gently, moulding and pressing the sensitive skin before grabbing the nipple and twisting sharply. Ingrid arches off the mattress, so Mercedes bends to capture Ingrid's exposed neck between her lips. She knows that Ingrid is sensitive at her pulse point, so she sucks, hard, and Ingrid cries out.

Both hands move upwards to attend to her breasts, skin burning under her touch, and Ingrid whines again. Mercedes bites down against her neck, flesh pliant and salty with sweat. Releasing the skin, Mercedes blows against it teasingly, and the sensation has Ingrid thrusting up weakly.

"M-Mercie," she gasps.

"You'll have to do much better than that, my sweetheart."

And she bites down at the juncture of Ingrid's neck and shoulder, the muscle strong and reliable, and Ingrid's hands fly to her shoulders, curling into her skin sharply.

"Mercie, please!"

Her head soars recklessly, and she abandons Ingrid's chest to drag her nails down her hips as she leans back. Ingrid is red and pink all over, biting her shaky lip and looking at her with half-lidded desperation. Mercedes curves a hand below her knee to see Ingrid at last.

She's greeted by the silver strands of her dripping arousal, and Mercedes sighs, smiling.

"So wet for me," she says, lowering two fingers into the wetness, running her fingers along Ingrid's folds lightly.

When Mercedes ends the motion with a teasing flick at her clit, Ingrid gasps, "Mercie, inside!"

Watching Ingrid's pleading eyes watching her, Mercedes realises that Ingrid is familiar enough to do as she pleases. The realisation makes her smile, wicked 

"Hmm," she says, teasingly. "What did you say about patience, earlier?"

"Mercedes," says Ingrid exasperated.

But she can keep the pink on Ingrid's cheeks, so Mercedes says breathlessly, "Should I fuck you? Or should I keep you like this, shaking and calling out my name?"

And Ingrid does turn bright pink when she says, "Mercie, fuck me, please!"

The sound of her name falling from her lips so desperately makes Mercedes laugh with a heady rush, and she leans back to grip the base of her shaft. Lining it up with the dampness between Ingrid's legs, Mercedes sneaks another look at the woman she loves.

Ingrid is shaking, trembling, quivering with want, and it's so similar to the one within Mercedes.

So she pushes into Ingrid, admiring the way she stretches out to take her, so wet and so perfect. Moaning and shaking, Ingrid opens for her until she's fully seated within, and Mercedes leans over to brush away sweaty bangs.

Cupping her cheek, Mercedes tilts her head to see the dazed look in her eyes. She leans down to kiss her, rough and biting.

"Mercie…"

"Hush, now," she whispers against her lips, pressing a chaste kiss against swollen skin. "I've got you."

Something terribly vulnerable spreads across Ingrid's face, and Mercedes watches it tremble along her lower lip.

Perhaps that's what this game is, to constantly fall, knowing that the other will catch you in their familiar embrace. And yet, Mercedes soars with relief.

Leaning back, Mercedes cups Ingrid's jaw as gently as she can, before pulling out and slamming their hips together.

Ingrid throws her head back with a cry of shock, and Mercedes lets her hand drift to Ingrid's pretty, bruised neck as she continues to thrust. Her thumb can feel the trembling sucks of breath and warbled cries of pleasure as she fucks the strap deeper into her. Right there, Mercedes realises, so she digs her nails into Ingrid's shoulder and hastens the speed of her hips.

She's going so fast that Ingrid is moving from her thrusts, and Mercedes marvels at the way she takes it, all of the want that pours out of her, ugly and raw and untamed.

Ingrid sings out her name, sweeter than any choir, and Mercedes knows that the sticky tendrils that unfurl in her chest is uncontrollable. If she follows the errant thought, which part of her would she have to trade to accommodate the space?

And it's so cruel, too, when she stops, buried deep between Ingrid's quivering thighs.

"M-Mercie, why'd you stop, I-I'm close–"

Pressing her lips against the errant beating of Ingrid's chest, Mercedes wonders why the want refuses to stay down around Ingrid.

"Payback," she giggles.

Ingrid huffs out a groan and a laugh, and Mercedes is pulled up for a kiss.

"I've learned my lesson. I won't tease you again. Is that enough?"

"Oh, but this is so much fun."

Ingrid's eyes narrow, sparkling with a challenge that kindles Mercedes.

"Is this you saying that you won't fuck me into the mattress? Because if it is, I swear to the Goddess, Mercedes, I'll–"

But what Ingrid would do is lost, because the flushed, sweaty, beautifully defiant scowl on her face tells her that she can, and so Mercedes does.

She resumes the earlier pace immediately, Ingrid scrambling to grip her shoulders for purchase. Mercedes marks a purple pattern along her trembling throat, listening to the sounds that Ingrid makes, loud and raunchy and needy, as she breaks her apart. Her head thrums, stubborn and obstinate.

"Mercie, I-I'm close, Mer-Mercie–"

Leaning back, she presses a hand against Ingrid's shoulder and slams their hips together as fast as she can. Ingrid begins to arch, wailing out her name as a song, until one well-aimed thrust throws her over the edge.

Mercedes can catch her too. She's good at that, so she slows down her hips, moving with the crests of Ingrid's climax. Each thrust coaxes out a warbled whisper of her name, and Mercedes can feel the glow spill from her chest, bright and golden and untamed.

Green eyes hazy with pleasure, sweet lips parted to catch sharp rasps of air, purple-marked neck quavering from the aftershocks. Still buried in her, Mercedes leans down to kiss Ingrid, slowly, because she knows how to do this, at least. Ingrid's arms slip over her neck, and Mercedes is pressed against the smarting warmth of her strong body.

"Good?"

"Good," sighs Ingrid. "Great."

Mercedes watches her carefully. Ingrid shines in her afterglow, lazily stretched across her sheets, body limber from the release.

The dam is broken now, fully and wholly, and it cascades out of Mercedes with a burning fever. Ingrid can catch her and she can catch Ingrid, and that is simple enough, without complicating things further.

But this is not enough, and she's not willing to settle for this, not when Ingrid is right next to her.

Resolute and firm, stubborn and protective, steadfast and reliable. Nothing Mercedes does will hurt her, and nothing she does will send her scattering into the snowy constellations outside. Ingrid will always come back, if Mercedes asks, and she won't leave, unless Mercedes asks.

She has that power at last, charging through her as a powerful bolt of lightning.

"We're not done yet," she breathes.

Pressing the tip of her thumb against her clit, Mercedes rocks her hips once.

"I said I'd ruin you. And I will."

Ingrid sighs out her name at the touch, and Mercedes watches.

Watches, circling her clit, the tremor that shudders through Ingrid. But it doesn't split her in half, rather, brightens her eyes with a new-found intent.

Watches, as she slowly moves into the dripping bursts of her want, the way her eyes shiver closed. Her eyebrows melt from the pleasure, relaxing into a state of acceptance.

"Mercedes–"

Watches, as she rocks her hips faster, the quivering skin of her abs. Ingrid is pink and red and purple from Mercedes' hands and mouth, silver sweat dripping deliciously along her taut, jittering arms.

"P-please–"

Watches, as her finger circle faster and rougher, the way she bites her swollen lips, trying and failing to hold back a tired, pathetic whine. Swollen lips part, and Ingrid whimpers shaky syllables of her name.

"M-Mercie, ah–"

Watches, as she thrusts faster, the beginning of the end, when Ingrid cries out with all the sweetness and sinfulness in the world.

"Right- Right there–!"

Mercedes is a burning comet, blinding and ablaze.

"–oh Goddess, o-oh–"

Recklessly plummeting to the Earth, and she will shatter, she will hurt.

"–Mercedes, I love you, _yes!_ "

Should Ingrid have to catch her?

Ingrid flies off the sheets, back curved gracefully, sparkling in the dim light of the room. Still for a moment, then collapsing against the pillow with an explosion of golden and yellow hair.

For several minutes, Mercedes breathes heavily, each a fiery exertion against her burning chest.

With a weak moan, Ingrid lets Mercedes pull out. In the shivering silence of the aftermath, heat still races along her arms and her thighs. Ingrid watches her slip out of the strap, and Mercedes is almost afraid to look at Ingrid, see the cost she has to pay.

When Mercedes does, however, she catches the anxious quaver in her eyes.

And she knows, instantly, what Ingrid is going to say.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"

Relief washes over her like a cool wave.

Mercedes collapses against Ingrid, shutting her up with a kiss. Ingrid catches her and kisses her back.

"I love you, too," she whispers against her lips. "I love you, my sweetheart."

Her smile is blinding when she breathes, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," agrees Mercedes, and she's smiling so much.

"Good," sighs Ingrid.

Mercedes giggles, pressed against Ingrid's cheek, and says, "Just good?"

"Perfect. Incredible. Uh–"

"Uh?" coaxes Mercedes, teasing.

"Show-stopping," tries Ingrid lamely.

That draws a laugh out of her, and Mercedes slides down Ingrid's giggling frame to rest her head against her chest. Ingrid shakes with her, but Mercedes is steady in her strong arms.

Love really is this silly, then.

-

The rustling is what wakes her up.

Weak sunlight filters through her curtains, and Mercedes spots the hunched blob that is Ingrid sitting at the edge of her bed.

"Ingrid?" Oh, Goddess, she sounds terrible.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," whispers Ingrid.

It must be early, because the sunlight is still blue. Wearily, Mercedes notices that Ingrid's shirt is half-buttoned, vest thrown loosely over her shoulders. Purple marks from last night dot her neck, leaving a proud smart in Mercedes' fingers.

"Go back to sleep. Sorry about this."

Ingrid's phone flickers to life, and the sharp white light blinds Mercedes. Urgently, Ingrid types something out, frowning.

"Do you need to leave?"

"Um." Ingrid’s eyes flicker to her phone screen, still harsh and invasive. "Uh…"

Sleep threatening to overtake her, Mercedes reaches out to touch Ingrid, smoothing out the creases in her vest. Ingrid looks at her then, eyes heavy with worry.

Mercedes smiles, hoping to put her at ease.

"I can stay. If…If that's okay."

Against the shivering light trickling in, Mercedes knows that she just needs to ask. Ingrid will deliver, maybe even above and beyond what is needed, as long as she asks.

The glow in Ingrid's eyes is as weak as the early morning sun, and Mercedes knows that Ingrid needs to hear her say it.

"I don't mind," she manages.

Relief settles between her eyebrows, and Ingrid switches off her phone with a sharp click. Shimmies out of her vest, and Mercedes holds up the blanket for her. Ingrid tucks her face in the divot of Mercedes' neck, and she wraps them up in a safe shell of warmth, closing her eyes against her sleep-mused hair.

The sunlight is shy, but Mercedes knows it will grow, and Ingrid will stay till then, at least.

-

Mercedes wakes up to the smell of honey and lavender, cold.

Ingrid’s warmth is missing from her bed, but there’s a still-steaming cup of tea on her bedside table. Remnants of last night are strewn all over her bedroom floor, and Ingrid’s vest and shirt have joined that messy pile. Leaning against her headboard, Mercedes takes sips of warm tea until her senses sharpen.

Her bedroom door creaks open, and in shimmies Ingrid, balancing two bowls in her hands carefully. She’s wearing one of Mercedes’ large t-shirts, and the sight warms her better than the tea. The smell of fruit and yoghurt fill the room, and Mercedes smiles, “Careful, now.”

With a satisfied grunt, Ingrid lowers the bowls onto her side-table. Turns to her with a grin brighter than the sun, and Mercedes laughs.

“What’s all this for?”

“For you,” smiles Ingrid.

Mercedes drops her gaze with a laugh, and shakes her head in disbelief. “You silly girl.”

“But I made breakfast bowls,” huffs Ingrid.

She’s sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, close enough to warm Mercedes up.

“Thank you,” she says, pulling her in for a kiss. Ingrid tastes of coffee, gentle and slow.

Of course Ingrid polishes her bowl in a few minutes, and Mercedes watches her eat, sipping the rest of her tea. Her stomach is a little weak in the mornings, so she pokes at the blueberries and slices of banana in her bowl as Ingrid leans against her thigh.

Facing her, Ingrid watches her pick at the bowl, grin threatening to jump off her face. Mercedes laughs and feeds her some fruit. A naughty hand curls at her hip, drawing senseless patterns on the exposed skin.

“You guys have a lot of granola,” notes Ingrid.

“Annie likes to snack on it.” Mercedes is feeling quite full, already. “Something about easy to eat food while she’s studying or gaming or mixing.”

Ingrid hums, and continues her light touches.

Curtains still closed, bright light darts out from the edges. Ingrid shuffles closer for a kiss when Mercedes puts her half-finished bowl away, and Mercedes cradles her cheeks and kisses her, long and languid. Her lips taste of fruit, tart and sweet.

Senseless conversation fills the gaps between their kisses, just as aimless and lengthy. Ingrid is lovely when she’s like this, relaxed and limber, leaning over her lap and smiling up at her softly. Mercedes can feel the glow of her own smile, and nearly forgets what time it is.

Checking her phone, she sighs, “It’s 8 am.”

“Do you need to get to the orphanage?”

“Maria should be fine, for a little while.” Mercedes runs a thumb along Ingrid’s cheek. “Did you need to be somewhere today?”

“Oh, that.” Ingrid looks away tellingly. “No, not really.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“Huh? No, no, it’s nothing like that. It was–” Ingrid stumbles over her words. “It was my parents. They wanted to know if I was free for lunch. But I told them I had work.”

She got the lazy morning, she got the breakfast in bed. She got the unhurried kisses and she got Ingrid’s relaxed, adoring gaze. It should be enough.

But Mercedes has always been selfish, and it escapes as a giggle.

“What?” asks Ingrid, frowning slightly.

"Am I a secret, then?"

"What? No."

Mercedes bows her head, hair covering the smile stuck on her face.

“Mercedes,” says Ingrid, sharply.

It’s different in the navy blue of the night, when the colours are darker with passion. In the light morning glow of love, her selfishness is horribly, terribly invasive.

“Mercie,” says Ingrid, soft. “Look at me, please.”

She does, and Mercedes is once again set aflame by Ingrid’s determined gaze.

“You’re not a secret. I told them that so that they’d leave me alone. It’s not right of me, I know, but…”

Ingrid takes a moment to gather her thoughts.

“You know how they are,” she sighs. “I just managed to get them off my back about the marriage stuff, so I guess it'll take some time to tell them about my sexuality. Well, uh. They might already have an idea, because I almost let it slip, but…"

Stopping herself mid-ramble, Ingrid swallows. Mercedes watches, glowing with a gentle light.

"That's not the point. You're not a secret. I will tell them. You– You will meet them, as my girlfriend, and soon. Conrad's a little shit but he's a good person. You and mom will get along really well. Dad's...well, he's Dad, but he'll love you."

Mercedes knows why the want grows. Ingrid feeds it with her own, slowly at first, and then all at once, golden and shimmering through every limb.

"And you won't be just my girlfriend forever. I...I promise. I...um…"

Mercedes kisses Ingrid then, hard and firm, hoping it would hold the words back, but Ingrid returns the kiss, stubborn and steadfast.

She was supposed to catch her, thinks Mercedes fondly. For all of her predictability, Ingrid loves to surprise, and Mercedes supposes that at the very least, Ingrid is soaring with her.

But really. How does she respond to _that?_

Helplessly, Mercedes laughs, "Ingrid, it's only been 12 hours.”

"O-Oh. Right.” Ingrid is blushing, pink and sweet. “Sorry, I got– I got carried away."

Love is a complex jumble of emotions, and Mercedes wonders if this blinding, trembling happiness is how it’s always going to be.

"It's okay,” says Mercedes. "We have time."

Ingrid smiles back. "All the time in the world."

.

.

.

.

.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're done!
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos. im blown away by everyone's kindness. just thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you
> 
> make sure you check out [ yocto](https://twitter.com/yoctogram_), who drew the art for the first two chapters and put the brainworm in my head. they're absolutely incredible and amazingly talented. thank u for listening to me redraft four (4) times yocto ily
> 
> ...and if i write more mercigrid after ~60k words of them feeling and fucking? MIND YA BUSINESS
> 
> jess drew some beautiful [art](https://twitter.com/chuminder/status/1315802145569091585?s=20) for the fic, please do check it out!

**Author's Note:**

> my buddy [ @yoctogram_ ](https://twitter.com/yoctogram_) on Twitter said smn abt mercigrid modern au where they fuck and then i did this. are they gonna fall in love? yes. are they gonna get railed? also yes
> 
> follow me on Twitter [ @sadsambharsobs ](https://twitter.com/sadsambharsobs), all the amazing art is by my fellow mad lad [ @yoctogram_ ](https://twitter.com/yoctogram_)


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